THE     OLD 
FtO  OM 


CARL        E,WAL,D 


THE  OLD  ROOM 


THE  OLD  ROOM 


BY 

CARL   EWALD 

AUTHOR  OF  "  MY  LITTLE  BOY,"   "  TWO-LEGS,"   "  THE  SPIDER   AND 
OTHER  TALES,"  ETC. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  DANISH  BY 
ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW    YORK     ::     ::     ::     ::     ::      1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBXER'S  SONS 


Sole  Authorized  Translation 
Published  March,   1908 


THE  AUTHOR'S   DEDICATION   OF  THE 
SECOND    EDITION 

NOW  THAT  I  AM  PUBLISHING,  UNDER  MY  OWN  NAME,  A  NEW 
EDITION  OF  THIS  BOOK,  THE  FIRST  TO  WIN  ME  FRIENDS  IN  ANY 
NUMBER,  I  DEDICATE  IT,  GRATEFULLY  AND  RESPECTFULLY,  TO 

FRU   AGNES   HENNINGSEN, 

TO   WHOM   MY   ART  OWES   MORE  THAN  TO   ANY. 


; i 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  AUTHOR'S  DEDICATION v 

THE     TRANSLATOR'S    NOTE    AND    AUTHOR'S 
PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION     .     .     .     ix 

PART     I — CORDT i 

PART  II — CORDT'S  SON 143 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

The  two  parts  forming  this  story  are 
published  separately  in  Denmark;  and 
Part  I,  which  I  have  called  Cdrdt,  was 
first  issued  anonymously  as  The  Old 
Room,  with  a  preface  intended  to  convey 
the  idea  that  the  work  had  been  written 
by  the  heroine  of  the  story.  When  Part 
II  appeared,  under  the  title  of  Cordt's 
Son,  in  which  Fru  Adelheid  has  returned 
to  the  old  house  and  the  old  room,  Carl 
Ewald  suppressed  this  preface.  It  is  so 
beautiful  that  it  were  unfair  to  deprive 
the  author's  American  readers  of  the  joy 
of  it.  The  German  translator  prints  it 
at  the  end  of  his  version,  by  way  of  an 
appendix;  I  prefer  to  give  it  here: 


TRANSLATOR'S   NOTE 


PREFACE 

TO   THE    FIRST    (ANONYMOUS)    DANISH 
EDITION 

I  who  write  this  book  am  still  young  and 
fair  to  look  upon  and  rich  and  very  sad. 

My  youth  and  my  beauty  fill  me  with 
horror  and  I  know  not  what  to  do  with 
the  wealth  which  I  possess.  Daily  my 
sorrow  sings  the  same  song  in  my  ears.  It 
rustles  in  the  folds  of  my  train;  it  sighs  in 
the  fragrant  flowers  at  my  breast.  Through 
the  long  nights  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  my  bed 
thrusting  away  the  dream  that  comes  with 
glaring  eyes. 

Now  what  I  have  written  is  a  lie. 

When  I  wrote  it,  it  was  the  truth:  now, 
it  is  a  lie.  When  I  saw  it  set  down  on 
paper,  I  knew  that  my  youth  was  my 
strength  and  my  right;  that,  if  I  were 
ugly,  I  could  not  live;  and  that,  if  I  were 
poor,  I  should  die. 

And  now  I  am  glad;  and  there  is  no- 
thing on  earth  but  my  gladness. 

I  am  in  this  case. 

But  I  let  the  words  stand  as  I  wrote 
them,  for  I  know  that  the  time  will  come 
—and  that  soon — when  all  of  them  will  be 
true  again  .  .  .  until  they  once  more  be- 
come a  lie. 


TRANSLATOR'S   NOTE 


And  so  my  book  will  grow,  through 
still  and  stormy  times,  until  the  day  comes 
when  I  am  again  what  I  now  am. 

But  that,  too,  is  itself  a  lie.  For  I  was 
always  the  same. 

But  there  came  a  moment  at  which 
HE  saw  me  as  I  am;  and  there  my  book 
will  end.  For  after  that  there  was  but 
little  that  differed  from  the  stories  in 
other  books  and  less  still  that  I  re- 
member. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  true  that  the 
world  contains  a  room  in  which  the 
radiant  light  of  happiness  flamed  up  be- 
fore my  eyes.  And  the  light  went  out  and 
the  door  closed  upon  me. 

And,  if  any  one,  from  what  I  have  here 
written,  comes  to  think  me  a  great  and 
abject  sinner,  then  he  is  indeed  right. 
But,  if  he  thinks  that  I  have  been  cast 
off  by  the  world,  then  he  is  at  fault. 

For  I  go  with  head  erect  and  peacefully 
along  the  road  that  others  go;  and  I  am 
welcome  among  the  best.  The  lights  in 
the  high  hall  stream  down  upon  my  hair; 
the  men  honour  me  with  their  desire,  the 
women  with  their  ill-will. 

Their  lives  only  one  who  knows  my 
guilt  and  he  has  condemned  me. 


TRANSLATOR'S   NOTE 


For  it  was  HE  that  stayed  in  the  room 
where  the  light  burns.  And  she  that 
went  out  into  the  street  was  I. 


I  am  indebted  to  the  collaboration  of 
my  friend  Mr.  Osman  Edwards — one  of 
the  foremost  linguists  in  Europe— for  his 
translation  of  the  six  songs,  in  which  he 
has  carefully  preserved  both  the  sense 
and  the  exquisite  rhythm,  and  also  for 
many  suggestions  regarding  the  accurate 
solution  of  such  difficulties  as  occurred 
in  the  prose  text. 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS. 


CUELSEA,  ENGLAND,  10  December,  1907. 


PART  I 
CORDT 


PART  I 
CORDT 


CHAPTER  I 

t 

THE  room  looks  out  upon  the  square, 
which  is  so  big  and  so  fashionable 
that  there  is  no  business  done  in  it. 

By  day  there  is  a  sound  of  carriages, 
but  at  a  distance;  for  the  house  that  con- 
tains the  room  is  thrust  a  long  way  back 
and  its  walls  are  as  thick  as  the  walls  of 
a  castle.  In  the  evening,  the  square 
shines  with  a  thousand  lights;  at  night, 
you  can  hear  the  rippling  of  the  fountain, 
which  never  begins  and  never  stops,  cries, 
no  one  knowing  what  they  are,  and 
solitary  steps  that  approach  and  retreat 
again. 

3 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


The  room  is  built  high  over  the  square. 
Its  window  is  a  door  and  leads  to  a  bal- 
cony filled  with  red  flowers.  When  the 
wind  lashes  them,  their  petals  fly  right 
over  into  the  basin  of  the  fountain  and 
rock  upon  the  water. 

The  room  is  long  and  deep. 

Where  the  window  is,  the  light  streams 
in  through  the  wide,  stained-glass  panes; 
but,  inside,  where  the  fire-place  rises  to 
the  ceiling,  it  is  always  dark. 

No  one  has  ever  seen  the  curtain  drawn 
before  the  window.  But,  even  if  the  sun 
could  shine  right  into  the  room,  it  would 
never  have  seen  a  human  being  there. 
By  day,  the  room  is  dead. 

It  is  placed  so  strangely  in  the  house 
that  it  seems  to  form  no  part  of  it.  The 
life  of  every  day  passes  outside  it;  and, 
even  when  the  whole  house  is  lighted  up 
and  the  horses  paw  the  ground  in  the  gate- 
way and  glasses  clink  and  music  sounds 


CORDT 


in  the  great  drawing-room,  the  door  of  the 
room  remains  constantly  closed. 

No  one  has  ever  crossed  its  threshold 
but  the  master  of  the  house  and  his  wife 
and  the  oldest  servant  in  their  employ. 

For  the  room  is  the  soul  of  the  house 
and  its  tradition  and  its  secret  chamber. 

It  was  destined  for  this  purpose  long 
ago  by  the  man  who  built  the  house;  and 
so  cunningly  did  he  contrive  it  that  no 
one  could  guess  that  it  was  there,  unless 
he  knew  of  it.  Then,  when  the  work 
was  ended,  he  sealed  the  architect's  tongue 
with  a  solemn  oath  and  a  heavy  fee  and 
the  man  kept  his  sworn  word. 

And  the  builder  of  the  house  decorated 
the  room  as  richly  as  was  possible  ac- 
cording to  the  means  of  those  days,  with 
gilt  and  figured  leather  hangings  and 
stained-glass  window-panes  and  costly 
carpets  from  the  East.  But  he  placed 
no  furniture  in  it  until  the  very  last. 

5 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


Then  he  brought  two  splendid  arm- 
chairs which  he  had  had  made  for  him 
in  Milan. 

They  were  odd-looking  chairs.  They 
glided  so  smoothly  over  the  floor  that  a 
child  could  move  them,  and  were  so  large 
that  people  became  quite  small  when  they 
sat  in  them.  Their  wood-work  was  carved 
into  birds  and  animals,  whose  faces 
grinned  strangely  in  the  dark  but  ceased 
to  do  so  when  the  lights  were  lit. 

When  everything  was  thus  ordered  for 
the  best,  he  called  an  old  servant,  who 
had  been  in  the  house  since  he  was  a 
child,  gave  him  a  key  of  the  room  and 
told  him  to  care  for  it  faithfully.  Every 
evening,  when  it  grew  dusk,  he  was  to 
light  the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
he  was  to  do  this  even  if  he  knew 
that  his  master  was  travelling  in  dis- 
tant lands.  Every  morning,  he  was  to 
adjust  the  room  with  his  own  hands. 


CORDT 


None  but  himself  was  ever  to  cross  the 
threshold. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  when  he 
took  possession  of  his  house,  the  master, 
having  first  shown  her  all  its  other  beau- 
ties, brought  his  wife  to  the  room. 

She  looked  round  in  wonder.  But  he 
made  her  sit  in  one  of  the  great  chairs, 
seated  himself  in  the  other  and  spoke  to 
her  in  these  words: 

"Sweetheart,  this  room  is  for  you  and 
me  and  for  none  other  in  the  world.  I 
have  placed  it  in  the  most  secluded  part 
of  the  house,  far  from  the  counting-house, 
where  we  work,  from  the  passages,  along 
which  our  servants  go,  and  from  the 
drawing-room,  where  we  receive  our 
guests,  ay,  even  from  our  marriage-bed, 
where  you  will  sleep  by  my  side." 

She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it  and 
looked  at  him. 

"It  shall  be  the  temple  of  our  marriage, 

7 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


hallowed  by  our  love,  which  is  greater 
than  anything  that  we  know.  Here  we 
will  pray  to  Him  Who  gave  us  to  each 
other.  Here  we  will  talk  gladly  and 
earnestly  every  evening  when  our  hearts 
impel  us  to.  And,  when  we  come  to  die, 
our  son  shall  bring  his  wife  here  and  they 
shall  do  as  we  did." 

Thereupon  he  wrote  down  in  a  docu- 
ment how  all  this  had  happened  and  they 
both  sealed  it  with  their  names.  He  hid 
the  document  in  a  secret  recess  in  the 
wall.  And,  when  all  this  was  accom- 
plished, they  fell  upon  their  knees  and, 
folding  their  hands  together,  offered  a  sim- 
ple prayer  to  God  before  they  went  to  rest. 

These  two  are  long  since  dead.  But 
their  son  complied  with  their  will  and  his 
son  after  him  and  so  on  and  so  forth  until 
the  present  day. 

And,  however  riches  might  increase  or 
diminish  with  the  varying  fortunes  of  the 


CORDT 


times,  the  old  house  in  the  square  con- 
tinued in  the  possession  of  the  family.  For 
he  who  was  its  head  always  lived  in  such 
a  way  that  he  kept  his  ancestral  home. 

The  room  stood  untouched,  as  was  ap- 
pointed, and  the  document  grew  old  and 
yellow  in  the  secret  recess  in  the  wall. 
Once  only  in  the  time  of  each  master 
of  the  house  was  it  taken  out;  and  that 
was  on  the  evening  when  he  first  brought 
his  young  wife  to  the  secret  chamber. 
Then  they  wrote  their  names  upon  it 
and  put  it  away  again. 

But  it  became  the  custom  for  each  of 
them  that  took  lawful  possession  of  the 
room  to  adorn  it  with  a  piece  of  furniture 
after  his  own  taste  and  heart.  And  they 
were  strange  objects  that,  in  the  course 
of  time,  gathered  round  the  two  great, 
strange  chairs. 

There  was  one  of  the  owners  of  the 
house  who  was  kindly  and  cheerful  to  the 

9 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


end.  He  placed  in  the  room,  in  his  wife's 
honor,  a  costly  spinning-wheel,  richly  in- 
laid, which  whirred  merrily  every  evening 
for  many  a  good  year  and  which  stood  as 
it  was,  with  thread  upon  the  spindle. 

There  was  one  whose  thoughts  were  al- 
ways roaming  and  never  at  rest  and  whose 
intellect  was  obscured  before  he  died.  He 
presented  the  room  with  an  ingenious  rep- 
resentation of  the  heavenly  system.  When 
a  spring  was  pressed,  the  spheres  lit  up 
and  ran  their  eternal  courses;  and  he  sat 
and  played  with  the  stars  to  his  last  day. 

There  was  another  whose  wife  dreaded 
the  deep  silence  of  the  room  and  never 
entered  it  but  once.  He  waited  for  five 
years  and  then  had  a  doll  made,  a  woman, 
life-size  and  beautifully  dressed.  He  put 
it  on  a  chair  in  the  window,  so  that  the 
light  fell  on  its  vacant  face.  But  his  son, 
who  loved  his  mother,  drew  the  doll  back, 
so  that  it  was  hidden  in  the  curtain. 


CORDT 


There  was  one  whose  wife  was  in  the 
habit  of  singing  when  she  was  sad,  as  she 
often  was.  She  brought  a  spinet,  with 
slender,  beautiful  notes,  which  sang  like 
a  mother  singing  her  child  to  sleep.  In 
time,  its  sound  grew  very  thin.  When 
it  was  played  upon  in  the  room  at  night, 
it  sounded  over  the  silent  square  like  a 
humming  in  the  air;  and  none  that  passed 
knew  what  it  was. 

There  was  also  one  who  had  his  wife's 
portrait  painted  and  hung  the  picture  on 
the  wall.  He  broke  his  wedding-vows 
and  his  grandson  took  the  picture  down. 
But,  where  it  had  been,  a  light  stain  re- 
mained that  could  not  be  removed. 

The  man  who  was  master  of  the  house 
at  the  time  when  that  happened  which  is 
related  in  this  book  had  brought  nothing 
as  yet.  But  his  wife  had  set  up  a  thing 
that  had  caught  her  eye  more  than  all 
that  she  had  seen  in  the  way  of  art  on  her 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


long  travels.  This  was  a  jar  of  a  pre- 
posterous shape,  large  and  bright  and  of 
a  pale  tint.  On  one  side  was  the  figure 
of  a  naked  man  writhing  through  thorns. 
It  stood  on  a  stone  pedestal  hewn  from 
a  rock  near  Jerusalem. 

That  was  how  the  room  was. 

Each  evening,  when  it  grew  dark,  the 
oldest  servant  in  the  house  lit  the  candles 
on  the  mantel-piece.  Each  morning,  be- 
fore any  one  was  awake,  he  cleaned  the 
room  with  his  own  hands  and  watered 
the  red  flowers  on  the  balcony.  When 
winter  came,  he  strewed  bread-crumbs 
for  the  sparrows  that  gathered  on  the 
baluster  and  twittered. 

But  the  name  of  him  that  owned  the 
house  was  Cordt.  And  his  wife  was  Fru 
Adelheid. 


CHAPTER  II 

CORDT  sat  in  one  of  the  arm-chairs  by 
the  chimney,  reading. 

He  was  in  evening  clothes  and  held  his 
crush-hat  and  his  gloves  on  his  knees. 
He  turned  the  pages  quickly.  Every  mo- 
ment, he  swept  his  thick  hair  from  his  fore- 
head; every  moment,  he  looked  at  Fru 
Adelheid,  who  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  floor  with  her  hands  behind  her  back. 

She  was  very  tall  and  slender.  Her  face 
was  as  white  as  her  white  gown.  Her 
mouth  was  very  red,  her  eyes  looked  large 
and  strange.  She  wore  flowers  in  her  hair 
and  at  her  waist. 

"You  are  not  reading,  Cordt,"  she  said; 
but  she  passed  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  closed  the  book  and  laid  it  aside. 
13 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Then  he  moved  the  chair  so  as  to  turn  his 
face  towards  her.  His  eyes  were  larger 
than  hers  and  steadier,  his  niouth  firmer. 

"How  beautiful  you  are!"  he  said. 

She  laughed  softly  and  took  his  hand 
and  kissed  it: 

"How  charming  of  you!"  she  said. 

She  began  to  walk  again.  He  stretched 
out  his  legs  and  lay  with  his  head  back  in 
the  chair,  but  followed  her  all  the  time 
with  his  eyes.  Now  and  again,  she  stopped, 
smoothed  her  gown,  let  her  fingers  stray 
over  the  keys  of  the  spinet  and  then  went 
out  on  the  balcony  through  the  open  door. 
He  could  not  see  her  from  where  he  was 
sitting,  but  the  white  train  of  her  dress  lay 
inside  the  room  and  he  looked  at  that. 

Then  she  returned,  sat  on  the  arm  of 
the  other  chair  and  swung  her  foot  to  and 
fro. 

"  I  do  not  like  you  to  be  in  good  spirits, 
Adelheid,"  he  said. 
14 


CORDT 


Her  eyes  shone.  She  looked  at  the  fire- 
place, where  a  log  lay  glowing: 

"You  should  drink  a  glass  of  wine, 
Cordt." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  wine." 

"No  more  do  I.  But  I  like  its  exhil- 
aration. It  makes  one  so  light-hearted. 
Then  everything  becomes  so  charming." 

"Have  you  been  drinking?" 

"But,  Cordt  .  .  .  what  makes  you  ask 
that?" 

"  Because  you  are  so  light-hearted  and 
I  so  charming." 

She  went  up  to  him  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  his  hair: 

"Now  don't  spoil  it  for  me,"  she  said. 
"You  can,  with  a  single  word,  and  that 
would  be  a  great,  great  sin.  You  say  I 
am  pretty;  and  I  am  glad  because  you 
think  so  and  because  I  am  going  out  with 
you  and  because  you  are  handsome  and 
belong  to  me.  We  shall  be  far  from  each 
'5 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


other  and  close  together  for  all  that.  We 
shall  nod  to  each  other,  as  we  always  do, 
and  know  what  we  know." 

He  released  himself  from  her  gently: 

"Sit  down  a  little,"  he  said,  "and  talk 
to  me." 

She  kissed  him  and  sat  down  in  the 
chair  and  then  and  there  forgot  her  de- 
spondency. Her  eyes  shone  as  before. 
He  raked  out  the  embers  and  threw  a  log 
upon  them.  They  sat  and  watched  it 
catch  fire  and  saw  the  smoke  surround  it 
and  rise  up.  Her  foot  tapped  the  carpet; 
he  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and 
pursued  his  thoughts: 

"  In  my  first  year  at  the  university,"  he 
said,  "there  were  five  of  us  who  were 
chums  and  we  used  to  meet  every  Sat- 
urday evening.  It  was  generally  at  my 
rooms,  for  I  could  best  afford  it.  We 
used  to  sit  and  drink  wine  until  bright  day- 
light and  then  take  one  another  home." 

16 


CORDT 


"You  must  have  drunk  a  great  deal." 
"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  we  did.  We 
talked  so  loud  and  deep.  The  wine  made 
us  feel  bigger,  braver  and  cleverer.  Next 
day,  we  were  quite  different,  more  re- 
served and  cool.  But  we  could  look  one 
another  boldly  in  the  face,  for  we  had 
nothing  to  repent  of.  It  did  not  matter 
if  we  had  allowed  ourselves  to  be  carried 
away.  We  knew  one  another  so  well  and 
trusted  one  another." 

She  sat  and  looked  at  him  as  he  spoke, 
but  said  nothing.    Lost  in  thought,  he  con- 
tinued to  throw  logs  on  the  fire  until  she 
took  one  out  of  his  hand  and  put  it  aside : 
"You'll  set  the  house  on  fire!" 
"One  should  never  drink  wine  with 
strangers,"  he  said.     "You  see,  it  is  so 
degrading  to  be  stripped  bare.     And  that 
is  just  what  happens." 

"You  say  that  as  if  it  meant  getting 
drunk." 

17 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


He  paid  no  attention  to  her  words,  but 
went  on: 

"One  unbuttons  one's  self,  one  reveals 
one's  self.  Look  at  your  eyes  and  your 
smile.  I  have  felt  it  in  my  own  eyes: 
hundreds  of  times,  I  have  suddenly  seen 
them  all  naked  together  round  the  table." 

"In  good  company,  Cordt?" 

"Where  else?" 

"I  don't  understand  that,"  she  said. 
"I  do  not  know  the  people  whom  you 
speak  of." 

"You  will  be  with  them  this  evening, 
Adelheid." 

She  shrugged  hers  houlders  discontent- 
edly and  tapped  her  foot  on  the  carpet. 

"Adelheid." 

She  looked  at  him  and  her  eyes  were 
dark  and  angry.  He  took  her  hand  and 
held  it  fast  in  his: 

"I  have  seen  it  in  eyes  that  were  look- 
ing at  you,  Adelheid." 

18 


CORDT 


She  drew  her  hand  away: 

"This  is  hideous,  Cordt!" 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  balcony-door. 
He  looked  after  her  and  his  eyes  gleamed: 

"Adelheid." 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  him,  lean- 
ing against  the  window-frame,  and  but- 
toned her  gloves.  He  leant  forward  and 
gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  his 
hands: 

"I  have  seen  it  in  your  eyes,  Adelheid." 

She  did  not  move,  uttered  not  a  word. 
When  she  had  finished  buttoning  her 
gloves,  she  gathered  up  her  train  and  went 
out  on  the  balcony. 

The  May  air  was  cold  and  she  shivered 
in  her  thin  gown.  The  lamps  shone  dimly 
through  the  mist;  many  carriages  drove 
across  the  square.  She  could  hear  the 
tinkling  of  the  harness-bells  in  the  gate- 
way; the  footman  was  tramping  up  and 
down  below. 

19 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


She  turned  and  stood  at  the  window 
and  looked  at  Cordt.  He  had  moved  his 
chair  round  towards  the  fireplace.  She 
could  see  nothing  of  him  but  one  shoulder 
and  arm,  his  thick  hair  and  his  legs. 

"The  carriage  is  there,"  she  said. 

He  rose  and  went  to  her. 

"You  must  not  be  angry  with  me,"  he 
said,  gently.  "I  am  out  of  sorts." 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  perhaps.  .  .  .  No,  not  that." 

"Well,  for  all  that  I  care,  we  can  stay 
at  home.  You  have  spoilt  my  pleasure." 

"Have  I?" 

"Of  course  you  have.  It  was  for  you 
I  made  myself  look  so  nice  ...  it  was 
with  you  I  wanted  to  go  out." 

"Was  it?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  the 
fire: 

"Sit  down,  Adelheid  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  only 
for  a  minute.  Shall  we  stay  at  home  to- 


CORDT 


night  .  .  .  get  some  wine  .  .  .  have  a  party 
of  our  own  ...  ?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  you're  in  such  a  festive 
mood!" 

"Now  be  good,  Adelheid.  You  are 
my  only  dissipation.  .  .  .  You  know  you 
are  .  .  .  there  have  been  hundreds  of 
delightful  days  to  prove  it.  If  you  are 
of  my  mind  to-night,  we  will  do  this. 
And  you  will  be  beautiful  for  me  and 
I  for  you  and  our  eyes  will  sparkle  to- 
gether." 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  shook  her 
head: 

"I  will  stay  at  home,  if  you  wish  it," 
she  said. 

They  sat  silent.  The  candles  on  the 
mantelpiece  flickered  and  guttered  in  the 
draught. 

"It  is  strange,"  he  said.  "Do  you  re- 
member the  evening  in  London,  Adel- 
heid, when  we  were  to  go  to  that  great 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


ball?  Then  I  begged  you  to  stay  at 
home  and  you  did  and  you  were  glad/* 

She  lay  far  back  in  her  chair,  with  her 
arms  behind  her  neck: 

"I  was  not  glad  that  evening,"  she 
said. 

He  raised  his  head  and  listened. 

"I  submitted,  Cordt,  but  I  was  not 
glad  to.  I  was  acting  a  part,  for  your 
sake." 

She  met  his  eyes.  Hers  were  still  and 
sad  and  she  did  not  remove  them  while 
she  spoke: 

"I  was  wicked,  Cordt.  I  hated  you.  I 
told  you  a  lie.  I  was  dancing  at  the  ball, 
hour  after  hour,  while  I  sat  and  held  your 
hand  and  laughed  so  gaily." 

She  slipped  from  her  chair  and  crouched 
before  him,  with  her  hands  folded  round 
his  knee  and  her  eyes  fixed  humbly  on  his 
face: 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  so  strangely,  Cordt. 


CORDT 


That  is  how  I  am.  I  love  you.  But  I 
cannot  live  without  the  others  .  .  .  with- 
out having  them  to  see  it,  to  see  my  hap- 
piness. I  want  to  be  pretty  and  I  want 
them  to  fall  in  love  with  me  and  I  want 
to  belong  to  you.  I  only  care  to  be  pretty 
if  I  am  loved.  Don't  look  like  that, 
Cordt." 

She  clung  to  him  with  eyes  of  entreaty. 

"I  am  not  really  wicked,  Cordt  .  .  . 
am  I  ?  I  was  with  our  little  baby  day 
and  night  when  he  was  ill  ...  wasn't  I, 
Cordt?" 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Yes  ...  I  was.  But  I  cannot  always 
be  quiet." 

He  lifted  her  from  her  chair  and  crossed 
the  room  with  his  arm  round  her  waist. 
They  went  out  on  the  balcony.  A  car- 
riage came  across  the  square  at  a  brisk 
trot,  followed  soon  after  by  a  multitude 
of  others.  They  came  from  the  streets 
23 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


all  round,  but  drove  away  in  the  same  di- 
rection and  disappeared  round  a  street- 
corner.  The  horses'  hoofs  clattered 
against  the  pavement,  the  lamps  shone  on 
the  glittering  carriages,  coachmen  and 
footmen  sat  stiff  and  black  on  their 
boxes. 

"Come,  Adelheid,"  he  said.  "Let  us 
go." 

The  candles  on  the  mantelpiece  burnt 
down  and  the  faces  in  the  big  chairs 
grinned  in  the  darkness.  When  day 
dawned,  the  old  servant  came  and  ar- 
ranged the  room.  When  it  was  evening, 
he  lit  the  candles. 

He  did  this  the  next  day  and  the  next 
and  many  days  after.  The  sun  rose  and 
the  sun  set.  The  water  splashed  in  the 
fountain.  The  lamps  shone  and  the 
people  swarmed  over  the  square.  The 
balcony  was  bright  with  its  red  flowers 
24 


CORDT 


and,  every  evening,  the  light  fell  through 
the  open  door. 

But  the  summer  passed  and  no  one 
entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  III 

FRU  ADELHEID  stood  on  the  balcony. 
She  plucked  the  red  flowers  and  threw 
them  into  the  square  below.  She  wore  a 
long,  white  gown;  her  gloves  and  her  white 
boa  lay  on  the  ground.  She  had  just  come 
from  the  theatre  and  had  been  bored. 

Now  she  turned  towards  the  room. 

Cordt  sat  huddled  together  before  the 
fireplace  and  stared  in  front  of  him.  She 
wanted  to  see  his  face  and  called  to  him. 
He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  looked  up: 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  play  we  have 
been  to  see,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  it  was  stupid." 

She  drew  the  other  chair  over  the  floor, 
so  that  she  could  look  at  the  jar  with  the 

naked  man  writhing  through  thorns. 

26 


CORDT 


"There  was  a  time  when  I  was  tired  of 
law,"  said  Cordt.  "  I  was  glad  when  the 
poet  showed  me  a  marriage  that  was 
broken  for  love.  I  used  to  think  that 
people  grew  greater  through  it  and  that 
Heaven  seemed  higher  and  earth  more 
green." 

She  shuddered  again  and  wrapped  her 
skirt  closer  about  her  feet. 

"Now  I  am  so  tired  of  lawlessness.  I 
loathe  these  women  and  their  lovers." 

"You  are  married  yourself  now,"  she 
answered. 

"What  do  you  say?" 

He  looked  up.  She  could  see  that  he  had 
not  caught  her  words  and  she  was  glad. 

"There  must  be  a  struggle,  no  doubt," 
she  said. 

"  Of  course  there  must.     There  is.     In 
the  old  days,  they  were  not  allowed  to 
come  together  and  now  they  are  not  al- 
lowed to  stay  together." 
27 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


She  said  nothing,  but  let  her  hand  glide 
over  the  jar. 

"All  these  faithless  wives  have  lowered 
love.  I  could  imagine  a  woman  of  re- 
finement stifling  her  love,  because  she 
would  not  give  it  scope." 

"Because  she  was  afraid." 

"Because  she  was  refined." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  time  and  looked 
at  the  live  embers  in  the  white  ashes. 

"Do  you  think  there  are  many  who  do 
that?" 

He  looked  up. 

"Do  you  think  there  are  many  faith- 
less wives  ? " 

"I  don't  know.  Why  shouldn't  there 
be?" 

He  leant  his  head  on  his  hands.  Fru 
Adelheid  played  with  the  jar. 

"But  I  can't  understand  that  people 
care  to  go  to  the  theatre." 

"  Where  would  you  have  them  go  ? " 

28 


CORDT 


He  pushed  back  his  chair  so  that  he 
could  see  her.  She  remained  sitting  as 
she  sat  and  thought  of  nothing. 

"Adelheid,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  care  to  stay  at  home  to-night  ? " 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at 
her  hands. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  wanted  to  go  out 
to  supper." 

"  I  should  so  much  like  to  talk  to  you." 

"  But  I  did  come  home  from  the  theatre, 
dear,"  she  replied  and  put  out  her  hand 
to  him. 

He  did  not  see  it  and  she  let  it  fall. 

"I  would  rather  have  stayed  at  home 
after  the  theatre,  Adelheid." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  she  answered  and  just 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  did  not 
understand." 

"  But  you  understood  it  in  the  theatre. 
And  now  you  want  to  sup  out  all  the 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


He  bent  over  to  her  to  catch  her  eyes. 
She  said  nothing  and  did  not  look  at 
him. 

"Adelheid." 

Fru  Adelheid  knit  her  brow: 

"  I  don't  go  to  the  theatre,  you  see,  for 
the  sake  of  the  play,"  she  said.  "That 
does  not  amuse  me.  But  it  amuses  me 
to  watch  that  sea  of  people  and  to  hear 
them  clamor  and  then  fall  silent.  I  like 
the  way  they  clap  and  the  way  they  are 
quite  still  when  anything  good  is  being 
said  on  the  stage.  Then  something  sings 
inside  me  and  I  enjoy  it." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment;  then 
he  laughed  and  rubbed  his  hands.  Fru 
Adelheid  turned  her  chair  towards  him, 
so  close  that  her  knees  touched  his: 

"What  is  it  that  you  wanted  to  talk 
to  me  about  this  evening?"  she  asked. 
"That  couldn't  be  postponed  until  the 
theatre  was  over?  That  couldn't  wait 

3° 


CORDT 


for  an  hour,  now  that  I  feel  like  going 
out  to  supper?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  shook  his 
head. 

"  Was  it  anything  ?  Or  were  you  only 
tired  and  empty,  as  I  was  .  .  .  and  as  the 
faithless  wives  are  .  .  .  and  the  modern 
poets  and  .  .  .  and  everybody  ? " 

"No,  Adelheid,"  he  said.  "No.  It 
was  nothing.  Nothing  at  all." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she 
said  and  suddenly  flung  herself  violently 
back  in  her  chair.  "There  is  something 
behind  your  words." 

Cordt  nodded. 

"You  are  angry  with  me.  What  is  it 
that  I  do?  We  live  no  differently,  that 
I  know  of,  from  other  people  in  our  circle. 
We  travel,  we  go  to  the  theatre,  we  go  out 
and  we  receive  our  friends  at  home.  We 
meet  amusing  people,  artists  .  .  .  every- 
body who  is  anybody." 
31 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Are  you  always  amused  among  amus- 
ing people  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  doubtfully: 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  always  any- 
where." 

"  No,"  he  said, "  more's  the  pity.  There 
is  not." 

They  sat  silent,  both  steeped  in  thought. 
Then  he  pushed  his  hair  from  his  fore- 
head and  said,  calmly: 

"Try  if  you  can  understand  me,  Adel- 
heid.  When  a  woman  marries  and  be- 
comes a  mother,  she  usually  becomes 
quiet  .  .  .  quieter,  I  mean.  I  mean  that 
there  are  victories  which  she  cannot  win, 
triumphs  which  she  cannot  achieve  .  .  . 
which  she  does  not  trouble  about.  She 
does  not  trouble  about  them,  Adelheid, 
because  she  has  deepened  her  life  .  .  .  be- 
cause she  has  come  so  near  to  one  man 
that  the  approach  of  other  men  is  dis- 
tasteful to  her.  Then  she  becomes  quiet 
32 


CORDT 


.  .  .  quieter.  And  this  quietness  is  not 
empty,  but  just  richer  than  all  the  rest." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  strangely  in- 
quisitive flash  in  her  angry  eyes: 

"Are  you  jealous?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head  and  made  a  gesture 
of  denial  with  his  hand.  But  she  sprang 
from  her  chair  and  stood  before  him  with 
great,  proud  eyes: 

"You  ought  to  be,  Cordt,"  she  said. 
"  You  ought  to  be.  I  am  yours  and  I  love 
you.  You  won  me  once :  see  to  it  that  you 
know  how  to  keep  me.  Fight  for  me, 
Cordt.  I  am  young,  I  am  pretty  and  the 
world  is  full  of  men." 

He  rose  deliberately  and  looked  at  her 
till  she  thought  for  a  moment  that  he 
would  strike  her. 

"You  will  be  twenty-six  next  month," 
he  said.  "And,  besides,  we  in  our  family 
don't  fight  to  keep  our  wives." 

"Cordt." 

33 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


She  sat  down  without  knowing  what 
she  was  doing.  He  looked  at  her  and  she 
looked  back  at  him.  She  could  not  help 
thinking  how  tall  he  was;  and  how  easily 
he  wore  his  clothes;  and  that  one  of  his 
shoulders  was  a  little  lower  than  the 
other. 

Then  he  crossed  the  room,  so  quickly 
that  he  nearly  tripped  over  the  carpet. 
He  struggled  with  the  old  spinning-wheel 
and  pulled  it  over  the  floor.  She  followed 
him  with  her  eyes. 

"Can  you  spin  on  my  great-grand- 
mother's wheel,  Adelheid?"  he  asked. 

She  crossed  her  arms  on  her  breast  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Can't  you,  Adelheid?  Couldn't  you 
learn?  Not  if  I  begged  you  to?" 

He  pulled  the  spinning-wheel  right  in 
front  of  her  and  placed  it  as  if  she  were 
to  use  it  then  and  there.  Then  he  sat 
down  in  his  chair  again. 

34 


CORDT 


"Don't  you  think  you  could,  Adel- 
heid?" 

They  looked  hard  at  each  other.  Then 
they  became  timid  and  shy  and  dropped 
their  eyes. 

They  both  thought  of  holding  out  their 
hands,  but  neither  could  see  the  other's. 
They  longed  to  throw  themselves  into 
each  other's  arms,  but  they  sat  as 
stiff  as  statues.  Their  lips  trembled; 
but  they  did  not  look  at  each  other 
and  neither  knew  anything  of  the  other's 
thought. 

"I  am  thinking  how  very  small  we 
look  in  these  big  chairs,"  he  said,  at 
last. 

His  voice  was  calm  and  she  grew  quite 
calm  at  once.  It  was  all  over;  there  was 
peace  in  their  souls.  It  was  not  a  recon- 
ciliation, for  they  remembered  no  quar^ 
rel.  Their  glances  rested  confidently  upon 
each  other. 

35 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


There  was  nothing  between  them  and 
they  were  friends. 

"I  wonder  if  we  are  inferior  to  those 
who  sat  here  before  us,"  she  said.  "  Dif- 
ferent, yes;  but  inferior?" 

They  both  rose. 

"Much  inferior,"  said  Cordt,  "and 
much  less  happy." 

They  crossed  the  room  and  went  out  on 
the  balcony,  as  was  their  custom  before 
they  went  to  bed. 

The  stars  of  the  September  night  rode 
in  a  high  sky.  Most  of  the  lamps  were 
extinguished  and  there  were  but  few 
people  in  the  square.  A  drunken  man 
was  singing  far  away.  The  sound  of  the 
water  falling  in  the  fountain  swelled  up 
in  the  silence. 

"How  beautiful  it  is  here!"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"And  now  the  summer  nights  are  over 

and  we  have  not  enjoyed  them." 
36 


CORDT 


She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  in  the  whole  world 
there  is  a  square  so  pretty  as  this,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  yes  ...  in  Florence.  ..." 

He  sighed  and  led  her  into  the  room: 

"We  have  travelled  too  much,  Adel- 
heid." 

She  crossed  the  floor  quickly  and  opened 
the  door.  He  remained  standing  on  the 
balcony. 

It  had  all  seethed  up  in  him  again.  He 
fought  against  it,  but  to  no  purpose. 

"Are  you  coming,  Cordt?" 

She  was  outside  in  the  passage  and 
could  not  see  him. 

"Do  you  go.  ...  I  will  come  pres- 
ently." 

He  forced  his  voice  to  be  as  calm  as 
possible,  but  it  sounded  very  unnatural 
in  his  own  ears.  He  stood  quite  still  and 

37 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


listened.     She   remained   standing  for  a 
moment,  as  though  she  were  considering. 
Then  she  closed  the  door  and  went.    He 
could  hear  that  she  went  hurriedly. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  first  snow  had  fallen  and  lay  fine 
and  white  on  the  balcony,  embroidered 
by  the  feet  of  the  sparrows.  - 

The  red  flowers  stood  indoors,  in  the 
warmth,  and  looked  pitiful.  And  a  big 
table  had  been  placed  at  the  back  of  the 
room,  with  a  lamp  upon  it  and  a  pile  of 
books. 

Cordt  came  early. 

He  went  straight  up  to  the  table,  sat 
down  and  opened  a  book.  Soon  after, 
he  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  out. 

It  was  growing  dusk.  A  damp  and 
misty  evening,  with  a  thin,  reddish  light 
behind  the  mist  and  cold  feet  and  dripping 
roofs.  The  snow  on  the  square  had 
melted  into  slush.  The  fountain  was 

39 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


silent,  covered  with  boards  and  pine- 
faggots. 

He  sat  down  again  and  read.  He  stood 
up,  looked  at  his  watch,  went  to  the  win- 
dow, walked  up  and  down  the  floor  and 
sat  down  again.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  let  it 
go  out.  He  went  away  and  came  back 
in  an  hour  and  began  all  over  again. 

A  little  before  midnight/  the  carriage 
drove  in  through  the  gateway  and,  five 
minutes  later,  Fru  Adelheid  stood  in  the 
room,  tall  and  white,  with  large  eyes. 

"Have  you  enjoyed  yourself,  Adel- 
heid?" 

She  could  hear  that  he  did  not  care  to 
know  and  she  did  not  answer: 

"I  am  freezing,"  she  said. 

She  drew  her  chair  close  up  to  the  fire, 
nestled  into  it  and  put  her  feet  on  the 
fender. 

"They  asked  after  you,  Cordt." 

"I  daresay." 

40 


CORDT 


He  turned  over  the  leaves  of  his  book 
a  little,  then  closed  it  and  drew  his  chair 
beside  hers.  He  sat  resting  his  cheek  in 
his  hand  and  looked  tired. 

"Do  you  intend  to  sit  in  this  room  all 
day,  Cordt?" 

"No,  only  in  the  evening.  When  I 
have  nothing  else  to  do.  I  love  this 
room." 

She  pressed  her  hands  hard  together 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

"I  hate  it,"  she  said.  "All  the  un- 
kindness  that  has  come  between  you  and 
me  comes  from  here." 

He  said  nothing  to  this,  but  rose  and 
went  to  the  table  for  a  cigar.  Something 
went  through  her  as  he  slammed  the  lid 
of  the  box. 

"Are  you  going  with  me  to-morrow?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  want  to  cut  off  all  our  ac- 
quaintance, Cordt?" 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"No,"  he  said.  "I  do  not.  But  I  don't 
care  to  go  out  just  now." 

"What  do  you  think  our  friends  will 
say?" 

"Let  them  say  what  they  like." 

"Don't  you  consider  how  unpleasant  it 
is  for  me  ? " 

"Oh,  yes.  But  I  don't  care  to  go  out  at 
present." 

He  lit  his  cigar  at  the  candle  on  the 
mantel-shelf.  Then  he  sat  down  again 
and  smoked  quietly  and  looked  into  the 
fire.  She  looked  at  him  and  sighed. 

And,  without  knowing  how  it  happened 
and  without  intending  it,  she  suddenly  felt 
her  heart  touched  and  her  eyes  grew  moist: 

"Are  you  not  happy,  Cordt?" 

He  looked  up  and  gazed  at  her: 

"No." 

"And  it  is  my  fault?  Because  your 
wife  is  a  silly  woman,  who  wants  to  go 
out  every  day  ? " 

42 


CORDT 


"You  are  not  that,  Adelheid." 

"Because  I  am  an  empty,  restless, 
modern  creature  ? " 

"You  are  not  that." 

"What  am -I  then,  Cordt?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  and 
smiled  to  her: 

"You  are  my  wife,  Adelheid.  And 
we  have  a  little  baby,  we  two,  and  per- 
haps will  have  another." 

"No,"  she  said  and  drew  her  hand 
away.  "No,  Cordt.  That  was  only  my 
nonsense." 

He  said  nothing.  His  hand  fell  down 
slackly  and  he  turned  paler  than  she  could 
remember  ever  having  seen  him.  She 
was  afraid  that  he  was  ill  and  stooped  over 
him  and  called  to  him. 

He  did  not  see  her,  did  not  hear  her. 

She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  him. 
She  thought  he  could  not  look  more  dis- 
tressed if  their  boy  were  dead.  She  felt 

43 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


it  as  an  appalling  shame,  that  she  herself 
was  glad  of  it;  and  she  dreaded  lest  he 
should  look  at  her. 

Then  he  did  and  read  her  thoughts. 

And  she  grew  worse  and  worse  the  more 
she  saw  him  grieve.  She  did  not  under- 
stand it,  felt  troubled  by  it. 

And,  as  there  was  no  anger  in  his 
eyes,  it  grew  worse  for  her  still.  She  cast 
about  for  a  word  that  could  make  him 
move  and  say  something,  no  matter 
what. 

But  he  sat  still  and  silent  and  slowly 
turned  his  face  away  from  her.  And  she 
could  find  nothing  to  say. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  there  for  a  while.  Then  she  came 
back  and  sat  down  in  a  chair: 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Cordt  ?" 

"Of  you." 

Again  they  sat  silent. 

"Adelheid." 

44 


CORDT 


He  spoke  her  name  quite  calmly  and 
gently,  but  she  was  frightened. 

"I  will  fight  for  you,  Adelheid;  I  mean 
to  fight  for  you;  and  the  new  little  baby 
would  have  helped  me.  Now  I  shall 
have  to  fight  alone." 

She  remembered  vaguely  that  this 
phrase  had  once  been  uttered  between 
them,  but  she  did  not  understand  him. 

"I  will  stake  life  and  happiness  to  win 
you,"  he  said.  "I  will  talk  to  you  and 
importune  you  and  conquer  you.  I  will 
take  you  in  my  arms  and  close  my  door 
against  you  and  run  after  you  and  forgive 
you." 

"And,  if  you  don't  win  me?" 

"I  shall  win  you." 


She  looked  at  his  mouth,  while  she 
listened  for  the  answer.  It  came  quite 
calmly;  he  did  not  even  look  at  her: 

"Then  I  shall  cast  you  off." 

45 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


Fru  Adelheid  closed  her  eyes  tightly 
and  then  opened  them  wide: 

"  Better  cast  me  off  at  once,  Cordt.  If 
you  can." 

"I  can't.  We  have  the  baby.  And 
we  are  fond  of  each  other." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"What  don't  you  know  ?" 

She  did  not  answer,  only  shook  her 
head. 

"You  shall  have  your  liberty,"  he  said. 
"Go  out  as  much  as  you  please,  amuse 
yourself,  fill  the  house  with  guests.  Be 
gay  and  melancholy  the  whole  day  long, 
as  your  fate  decides.  Go  away,  if  you 
feel  inclined." 

"And  will  you  never  go  with  me?" 

"As  little  as  possible.  I  will  not  fight 
for  you  out  there.  I  won  you  there  once 
and  I  am  not  afraid  for  you  .  .  .  that  way. 
There,  in  any  case,  I  need  not  trouble  to 

win  you  again." 

46 


CORDT 


/'And  then?" 

"Then  you  will  know  that  you  can  find 
me  here  any  evening.  Here  is  where  I 
shall  live." 

He  rose  and  walked  slowly  through  the 
room.  Fru  Adelheid  let  herself  slip  to 
the  floor  and  lay  there  with  her  cheek  on 
the  fender  and  stared  before  her.  She 
saw  him  return  and  stand  beside  her  and 
go  and  come  back  again. 

"Cordt,"  she  said,  "I  shall  never  come 
here." 

"You  can  do  about  that  as  you  please." 

He  sat  down  and  rested  his  head  on  his 
hand: 

"My  ancestor  well  knew  what  he  was 
doing,  when  he  built  this  sacred  nuptial 
secret  chamber  in  his  rich,  new  house  .  .  . 
high  above  the  street,  far  from  the  day's 
work  .  .  .  and  the  night's.  He  saw  deep 
and  far." 

"It    is    the    torture-chamber    of    the 

47 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


house,"  said  Fru  Adelheid.  "I  ameer- 
tain  that  many  women  have  wept  bitterly 
in  here." 

He  half  rose  in  his  seat  and  passed  his 
hand  over  his  forehead. 

"I  am  frightened,  Cordt.  You  want 
to  ill-use  me.  I  can't  do  what  you  wish. 
Shall  we  talk  somewhere  else  ...  in  your 
room,  Cordt  ?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "Our  place  is  here. 
Here  we  are  bound  to  be." 

He  stood  up  and  sat  down  again  at 
once.  His  eyes  glittered  as  he  spoke: 

"Here  they  all  sat,  the  men  who  lived 
in  the  house  and  their  wives  ...  in  joy 
and  in  sorrow.  Their  faces  look  at  us 
from  every  corner,  their  words  whisper 
all  around.  .  .  .  Can  you  not  hear  my 
great-grandmother's  spinning-wheel  ?  .  .  . 
Do  you  not  hear  the  spinet  singing?" 

"Yes,  Cordt." 

"Here  our  words  become  greater  and 

48 


CORDT 


weightier  in  the  stillness.  Here  we  grow 
more  powerful  in  our  affection  and  our 
anger.  Whatever  we  can  do  we  can  do 
here.  They  knew  something,  those  old, 
big  men  and  women." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him,  leaning 
against  the  mantel,  tall  and  white: 

"They  knew  how  to  keep  discipline  in 
their  house,"  she  said. 

She  looked  at  him  and  there  was  pride 
and  fear  and  anger  about  her  red  mouth 
and  in  her  strange  eyes. 

"  That  they  did,"  he  said.  "  God  bless 
them  for  it  in  their  graves!" 

She  sat  down  in  the  old  chair  and  put 
her  arms  around  the  jar,  where  the  man 
writhed  through  thorns.  She  stared  at  the 
man's  face  and  it  was  as  though  she  were 
with  him  and  felt  the  thorns  in  her  flesh. 

"Here  also  it  was  that  we  two  bound 
ourselves  to  each  other  for  good  and  all, 
Adelheid.  That  evening  when  we  put 

49 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


our  names  to  the  old  yellow  paper  there, 
in  the  wall.  Then  you  pledged  yourself 
to  this  room,  which  you  hate.  And, 
when  the  time  comes,  our  son  will  come 
here  with  the  woman  who  shall  be  his 
joy." 

He  went  out  on  the  balcony  and  came 
back,  white  and  wet  with  snow.  He 
brought  the  cold  in  with  him  and  she 
shivered.  He  stood  silent  by  the  fire  and 
then  began  to  walk  about  again.  She 
listened  to  his  step  and  waited  for  a  word 
and  could  find  nothing  to  say. 

Then  she  went  to  the  old  spinet  and 
sat  down  and  sang: 

My  Lenore,  how  dark  and  drear 

The  burden  of  daylight's  bringing! 
No  music  of  chiming  hours  I  hear, 
No  birds  in  the  sunlight  singing. 

Sweet  Lenore,  O  lady  mine, 

Bright-eyed,  as  the  day  wanes  weaker, 

Now  pledge  me  deep  in  the  golden  wine 
Night  pours  from  her  fragrant  beaker. 

5° 


CORDT 


The  violets  watch  us,  blue  in  the  plain, 

Not  a  star  our  secret  misses. 
Kiss  me,  Lenore,  and  kiss  me  again 

And  give  me  a  thousand  kisses. 

The  slender  tones  sang  through  the 
room,  when  she  stopped. 

She  listened,  but  could  not  hear  his 
footstep.  He  was  sitting  in  one  of  the 
big  chairs  and  did  not  move. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  over 
her  shoulder.  Then  she  rose  and  closed 
the  instrument,  with  as  much  noise  as  she 
could : 

"Good-night,  Cordt." 

"Good-night." 

Then  she  turned  very  red  and  very  pale 
and  went  away  with  moist  and  angry  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V 

FRU  ADELHEID  was  icy  cold  and  had 
drawn  her  chair  as  near  the  chimney  as 
she  could. 

It  blazed  and  flared  in  there;  the  red 
glow  scorched  her  face  and  her  white 
gown.  But  she  kept  on  adding  logs  to 
the  fire  and  could  not  get  warm. 

Cordt  sat  in  the  other  chair  reading, 
with  his  book  on  his  knees  and  his  head 
leaning  on  his  hands.  The  book  was  a 
large  one,  with  yellow  pages  and  old- 
fashioned  characters. 

Fru  Adelheid  looked  at  him  despond- 
ently. She  regretted  that  she  had  come 
up  to  the  room  and  would  have  gone  away, 
had  she  had  the  strength  to.  She  sighed 

and  looked  into  the  fire  with  tired  eyes. 
52 


CORDT 


"Adelheid  .  .  .  listen." 
He  pushed  his  hair  with  both  hands 
from  his  forehead  and  read: 

"But,  when  the  tidings  came  to  Queen 
Thyre  that  Olav  Trygvasson  was  dead, 
she  fell  into  a  swoon  and  lay  thus  for  long. 
And,  when,  at  the  last,  she  came  to  her- 
self again,  she  was  so  sorrowful  that  it 
was  pity  for  those  of  her  house  to  behold. 
When  the  day  was  over,  she  went  to  a 
monk  who  dwelled  near  by  and  was  known 
in  all  that  land  for  a  holy  man.  Him  she 
asked  if  folk  who  died  by  their  own 
hands  sinned  against  God's  law;  since 
her  lord  and  husband  was  dead  and  she 
had  no  more  liking  for  life.  But  the 
monk  answered  and  said: 

"'Indeed  it  is  a  sin.  For  God  has 
given  us  life  and  will  take  it  back  again 
when  He  thinks  right/ 

"Then  the  queen  wept,  because    she 

53 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


must  sin  so  grievously.  But,  early  the 
next  morning,  she  came  again  and  asked 
the  holy  man  how  little  one  was  allowed 
to  eat  without  angering  God.  And  the 
monk  took  pity  on  her  and  said: 

"'If  you  eat  an  apple  every  day,  that 
will  be  enough.' 

"Then  Queen  Thyre  lay  down  on  her 
couch  and  bade  all  her  handmaidens 
leave  her,  so  that  she  might  be  alone  with 
her  dule  and  sorrow,  bidding  them  that 
one  of  her  maidens,  whom  she  best  loved, 
was  to  bring  her  each  morning  an  apple 
in  the  golden  cup  from  which  she  was 
wont  to  take  her  morning  draught.  And 
so  it  fell  that,  when  the  maiden  came  on 
the  morning  of  the  ninth  day  with  the  ap- 
ple in  the  golden  cup,  the  queen  was  in 
Heaven  with  her  husband." 

He  closed  the  book;  his  lips  moved  as 
though  he  were  repeating  the  words  to 

54 


CORDT 


himself.  Fru  Adelheid  looked  thought- 
fully into  the  fire.  Then  she  said: 

"It  was  all  very  well  for  those  old, 
dead  people.  They  always  had  a  holy 
man  to  whom  they  could  go  in  their 
distress." 

But  Cordt  shook  his  head. 

"You  distort  the  chronicle,  Adelheid," 
he  said.  "It  was  not  at  all  like  that. 
The  queen  wanted  to  die  and  she  died. 
She  went  to  the  monk  to  be  released  from 
sin  and  piously  subjected  herself  to  his 
command." 

"They  had  God,  in  those  days,"  said 
Fru  Adelheid. 

"Yes,  they  had.  The  old,  strong  God 
held  them  in  His  hands." 

He  rose  quickly  and  stood  by  the  chim- 
ney. 

"Do  you  believe  in  God,  Cordt?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  do  not.  But 
I  believe  that  He  once  existed.  And  I 

55 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


think  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  He 
were  here  now." 

"I  think  so  too." 

He  put  his  foot  on  the  fender  and  folded 
his  hands  over  his  knee: 

"God  is  somewhere  still.  And  I  do 
not  fear  His  mighty  face.  If  ever  I  come 
to  look  upon  it,  then  I  daresay  I  shall  see 
all  that  was  high  and  glorious  for  me  in 
my  days,  all  that  made  my  blood  red  and 
my  back  straight." 

Fru  Adelheid  smiled: 

"Is  that  the  old,  strong  God,  I  won- 
der?" 

He  glanced  at  her  face,  but  there  was 
nothing  there  to  rouse  his  anger.  Then  he 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside  her 
again  with  the  same  expression  in  his 
eyes: 

"The  old,  strong  God,"  he  said.     "I 
myself  can  do  well  enough  without  Him. 
But  I  need  Him  in  my  house." 
56 


CORDT 


She  laid  her  head  back  in  her  chair  and 
laughed: 

"Yes,  indeed,  Cordt.  That  you  cer- 
tainly do." 

And  she  kept  on  laughing  and  said 
again: 

"Then  I  daresay  that  wouldn't  have 
happened  with  .  .  .  what  was  his  name, 
who  robbed  you  down  below,  in  the  count- 
ing-house ?  Do  you  think  so,  Cordt  ? 
And  then  your  wife  would  kiss  your  hand 
every  morning  and  ask  to  know  her  stern 
lord's  commands." 

He  walked  up  and  down  and  did  not 
answer. 

Fru  Adelheid  understood  that  he  paid 
no  attention  to  her  sally,  because  her 
words  were  too  small  for  his  thoughts  and 
she  was  displeased  with  herself  and  angry 
with  him: 

to 

"  But,  to  come  back  to  the  story,  surely 
there  are  also  Hagbarth  and  Signe,"  she 

57 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


said.  "Not  to  speak  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  And  Maria  Veczera  .  .  .  and  El- 
vira Madigan." 

Cordt  continued  his  walk. 

"I  don't  say  anything  against  it.  It  is 
a  beautiful  story.  And  perhaps  it  is  true 
besides.  In  any  case,  it  is  right  to  place 
a  good  example  before  the  young.  But, 
as  for  as  Queen  Thyre,  it  surely  depends 
a  little  upon  how  long  she  had  been  Fru 
Trygvasson." 

He  did  not  so  much  as  look  at  her.  She 
felt  that  she  was  being  treated  as  a  child 
whom  one  does  not  trouble  to  answer  and 
she  worked  herself  up  into  a  steadily  in- 
creasing passion  and  sought  for  words  to 
wound  him: 

"Every  love  passes,"  she  said.  "That 
we  know.  It  is  all  very  well  for  those 
who  die  first.  They  show  up  prettily  in 
history;  but  there  is  nothing  to  prove  that 
they  were  better  than  the  rest  of  us." 
58 


CORDT 


Cordt  was  still  walking.  Now  he  stood 
over  by  the  window  and  looked  out. 
Then  he  began  to  walk  again. 

"Cordt/' 

He  stopped  before  her  chair  and  looked 
at  her. 

"  Do  you  know  how  long  King  Olav  and 
Queen  Thyre  were  married  ?" 

"What  is  the  point  of  all  this,  Adel- 
heid?" 

She  pushed  back  her  chair  and  stood 
up.  She  was  not  able  to  say  at  once  what 
she  wished,  but  took  a  step  towards  him 
and  sat  down  again  and  felt  quite  power- 
less. 

Then  there  was  something  in  his  glance 
that  helped  her.  And  she  drew  herself 
up  and  looked  him  firmly  in  the  face: 

"It  means  that  you  are  sitting  here  and 
growing  musty  in  old  books  and  old  stuff 
and  nonsense,  while  life  is  taking  its 
course  around  you.  In  time,  your  beard 

59 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


will  grow  fast  to  the  table  and  you  will 
never  speak  a  word,  except  once  every 
ten  years,  and  then  it  will  be  so  wise  and 
deep  that  no  one  will  understand  it." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  that,  Adelheid," 
he  said. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  Queen  Thyre 
or  Signe  or  any  of  them,"  she  said;  and 
her  voice  was  so  hard  that  something 
gave  a  wrench  inside  him.  "  I  want  to  be 
the  woman  I  am,  the  woman  you  fell  in 
love  with  and  took  in  your  arms.  I  am 
not  in  a  book.  They  will  never  read  about 
me  in  the  girls'  schools.  I  have  no  time 
to  spare  for  this  endless  old  drab  affection 
beyond  the  grave.  I  don't  understand 
it,  I  don't  believe  in  it.  I  want  the  wild, 
red  love.  ..." 

Cordt  had  turned  his  face  from  her, 
while  she  was  speaking.  Now  he  looked 
at  her  again: 

"Haven't  you  got  it,  Adelheid  ?" 

60 


CORDT 


She  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  gave  him 
a  strange  look.  He  had  never  seen  those 
eyes  before.  Veil  after  veil  fell  over  them, 
till  they  were  quite  dark,  and  then  there 
suddenly  lighted  in  them  a  gleam  that  was 
gone  at  the  same  moment  and  the  veils 
fell  again. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said. 

She  said  it  so  softly  that  he  could  only 
just  hear.  He  listened  a  moment  whether 
she  would  say  any  more. 

Then  he  bowed  his  head,  so  that  his 
thick  hair  fell  over  his  forehead,  and 
threw  it  back  again  and  turned  very 
pale: 

"Indeed?"  he  said. 

He  slowly  crossed  the  room  to  the  win- 
dow and  stood  with  his  forehead  against 
the  panes.  And  slowly  Fru  Adelheid 
turned  her  face  to  him  an4  back  again  to 
the  fire. 

It  did  not  seem  to  her  as  though  she 

61 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


had  said  it;  and  then,  the  next  moment, 
she  heard  his  quiet  answer  and  saw  his 
face,  which  was  so  terribly  stern  and  white. 
She  knew  that  it  was  not  what  she  meant 
to  say  and  she  knew  that  it  was  true.  She 
felt  a  bitter  remorse  at  having  hurt  the 
man  she  loved,  a  senseless  despair  at  not 
being  able  to  make  amends. 

Then  all  this  was  dissolved  in  anger 
that  he  had  led  her  on  to  speak  like  that. 
And  the  anger  died  away  in  a  profound, 
soft  pity  for  herself. 

She  saw  deeper  into  her  own  soul  than 
she  had  ever  done  before  and  turned  dizzy 
with  what  she  saw.  She  was  seized  with 
a  wild  and  curious  longing  and  bent  lower 
over  the  well.  Then  it  seemed  to  her  as 
though  she  were  falling  and  she  gripped 
the  arms  of  the  chair  so  tightly  that  her 
knuckles  turned  white. 

And  behind  the  terror  was  the  distant 

bird,  that  sang  ...  a  green  and  golden 
62 


CORDT 


land,  which  she  had  never  seen  in  her 
dreams.  .  .  . 

Cordt  stood  before  her  and  put  out  his 
hand: 

"Good-night,  Adelheid,"  he  said. 

She  sat  straight  up  and  looked  at  him 
in  bewilderment: 

"Are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"  No.  But  I  should  like  you  to  go  to  bed. 
I  shall  stay  here  a  little  longer  and  read." 

He  sat  down  and  took  his  book.  Fru 
Adelheid  rose  slowly  and  went  across  the 
room. 

At  the  door,  she  stood  for  a  moment  and 
looked  at  him.  His  face  was  very  still. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  though  he  were  far 
away.  She  wondered  whether  he  would 
look  up  and  say  good-night  once  more. 
Or  only  nod. 

But  he  was  reading  and  turning  the 
pages  of  his  book. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  fire  in  the  hearth  was  nearly  out 
and  the  candles  had  burnt  quite  low. 
It  was  quiet  in  the  room  and  quiet  out- 
side. 

Cordt  sat  in  his  chair.  He  had  been 
sitting  there  long  and  had  not  stirred,  only 
pondered,  with  his  fingers  buried  in  his 
hair,  and  listened  for  Fru  Adelheid's 
footsteps. 

She  was  at  home,  had  been  at  home 
the  whole  week.  But  she  had  not  set 
foot  in  the  room  for  the  last  fortnight. 

Cordt  looked  at  his  watch.  Then  he 
rose  and  left  the  room,  left  the  house. 

A  little  later,  Fru  Adelheid  came. 

She   remained   standing   at   the   door, 

64 


CORDT 


surprised  to  find  the  room  empty.  She 
called  to  the  balcony,  but  no  one  an- 
swered. Lingeringly,  she  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  There  was  no 
one  there. 

She  turned  quickly  to  go.  Then  the 
thought  came  to  her  of  what  it  had  cost 
her  to  come  up  here;  and  she  was  annoyed 
that  Cordt  was  not  there.  But  that  was 
only  for  a  moment;  then  she  was  happy 
again  at  escaping  the  encounter.  She 
felt  in  a  lighter  mood  than  she  had  for 
many  days. 

She  looked  about  her  curiously.  She 
had  never  been  alone  in  the  room  and 
she  seemed  not  to  have  seen  it  properly 
before. 

She  stood  long  in  front  of  the  old  chairs, 
lost  in  contemplation  of  the  strange  faces 
in  the  woodwork.  She  pushed  them 
round  the  floor,  placed  them  opposite 
each  other  and  beside  each  other  and  sat 

65 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


down  in  them  as  though  to  try  what  it  was 
like.  She  summoned  up  in  her  memory 
all  that  she  knew  about  those  who  had 
sat  in  them  and  amused  herself  with 
imagining  what  one  had  said  and  the 
other. 

Then  she  went  to  the  celestial  globe  and 
looked  at  it.  She  pressed  the  spring,  so 
that  the  stars  ran  and  shone.  She  looked 
with  delight  at  the  queer  plaything  and, 
when  the  clockwork  stopped,  set  it  in 
motion  again. 

She  pulled  out  the  old  spinning-wheel 
and  sat  down  beside  it  and  set  it  going. 
The  wheel  whirred  lustily  in  the  silent 
room  and  its  whirring  put  Fru  Adelheid  in 
a  very  cheerful  mood.  She  wished  the 
great-grandmother  would  come  in  at  the 
door  and  praise  her  for  being  so  in- 
dustrious. 

She  rose  from  the  spinning-wheel  and 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  looked 

66 


CORDT 


round.  She  thought  of  an  occasion  when 
she  had  stood  in  an  Indian  temple  and 
reflected  that  she  was  examining  these 
singular  old  things  just  as  calmly  as  she 
had  contemplated  the  Hindu  sanctuary. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were 
standing  in  a  mortuary  chapel,  where  old 
and  interesting,  but  foolish  ideas  and 
preposterous  superstitions  stared  at  her 
from  the  sunken  faces  of  mummies.  She 
felt  no  terror,  for  she  knew  that  all  that 
was  dead  and  gone  and  could  never 
return. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  light  stain  on  the 
wall,  where  the  portrait  had  hung. 

"Poor  Fru  Lykke!"  she  said,  aloud. 
"You  were  shut  out  of  the  temple,  be- 
cause your  husband  deceived  you." 

And  she  lifted  her  arms  in  the  air  in 
jubilant  gladness  that  she  was  born  in 
gentler  times  and  still  lived  and  felt  the 

warm  blood  beating  in  her  heart. 

67 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


Fru  Adelheid  went  round  the  room  and 
laughed  aloud  to  think  how  easily  she  had 
broken  the  spell  of  the  old  room.  She 
patted  the  big  chairs  on  their  stiff  backs 
and  talked  kindly  to  them.  She  used  to 
hate  them;  her  blood  had  turned  to  ice 
each  time  she  sat  in  them.  Now  they  were 
two  handsome,  valuable  chairs  and  no- 
thing more. 

She  had  torn  the  veil  from  the  Holy  of 
Holies.  There  was  nothing  behind  it. 

She  ran  to  the  window  and  pulled  the 
curtain  aside  with  a  jerk. 

There  sat  the  doll  .  .  .  stiff  and  stupid. 

She  laid  her  face  on  its  waxen  cheek 
and  kissed  it  with  her  red  mouth. 

Humming  a  tune,  she  sat  down  to  the 
old  spinet.  She  sought  for  a  hymn  that 
should  celebrate  her  victory  over  the 
ghost. 

But,  when  she  struck  the  first  notes,  she 
suddenly  grew  frightened. 

68 


CORDT 


She  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that 
there  was  some  one  in  the  room. 

She  sprang  up,  so  that  the  chair  upset, 
and  looked  around  her. 

There  was  no  one. 

The  candles  were  all  burnt  out  but  one 
and  it  was  dark  in  every  corner.  Now  the 
last  candle  flickered  up  and  struggled  a 
little  and  went  out. 

And  then  there  came  a  treacherous  and 
threatening  muttering  and  whispering  all 
round  the  room. 

People  passed  over  the  floor  .  .  .  many 
and  heavy  footsteps.  The  spinning-wheel 
whirred,  the  spinet  sang  behind  her  back. 
The  stars  ran  and  shone,  the  doll  rocked  at 
her.  The  faces  in  the  old  chairs  raised 
themselves  on  their  long  necks  and  pecked 
at  her  and  grinned  uncannily. 

But  the  man  who  writhed  through 
thorns  called  for  help.  .  .  .  She  could  hear 

him  call.     He  grew  bigger  ...  he  came 
69 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


nearer.  .  .  .  She  saw  the  blood  drip  from 
his  naked  limbs.  .  .  . 

Fru  Adelheid  crept  to  the  door  with 
quivering  hands  and  fearful  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FRU  ADELHEID  laid  her  hands  over 
Cordt's  book: 

"May  I  talk  to  you  a  little?  May  I 
tell  you  something  ?  May  I  tell  you  that 
what  you  are  doing  is  madness?" 

He  moved  her  hands  from  his  book  and 
looked  up: 

"Sit  down,  Adelheid,"  he  said  wearily. 
"Sit  down  in  that  chair." 

But  she  took  the  book  from  him  and 
threw  it  on  the  floor: 

"You  are  ill,  Cordt.  You  have  be- 
come ill  up  here  in  this  dreadful  room." 

"Have  you  a  household  remedy?"  he 
asked. 

"How  can  you  have  the  heart  to  make 
a  jest  of  it?" 

71 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"It  would  be  a  bitter  jest,  if  it  were 
one,"  he  said.  "But  it  was  not  a  jest. 
I  believe  in  the  old  household  remedies." 

Fru  Adelheid  sat  down  in  her  chair 
and  stared  helplessly  before  her: 

"Of  course  you  do,"  she  said.  "And 
in  old  books  and  in  everything  that  has 
ceased  to  exist." 

He  said  nothing,  but  yawned  wearily. 

"And  God  shall  be  set  on  His  throne 
again  and  I  shall  sit  at  the  spinning-wheel 
and  we  shall  enjoy  a  blessed  married  life 
and  be  happy  ever  after." 

Cordt  crossed  his  legs  and  looked  at  his 
nails: 

"Yes  .  .  .  that  is  my  programme,"  he 
said  quietly.  "Something  like  that.  And 
you  have  stated  it  in  your  usual  affection- 
ate manner." 

"Cordt,  how  can  you  have  the  heart  ?" 

She  swung  her  body  to  and  fro;  her 

hands  lay  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  were 

72 


CORDT 


moist.  She  wanted  to  say  something, 
but  could  not,  because  the  tears  pre- 
vented her.  She  could  not  understand 
that  he  did  not  help  her.  Then  she  said: 

"Things  are  going  badly  with  us, 
Cordt." 

And,  as  he  was  still  silent,  she  pulled 
herself  together  with  an  effort  and  spoke 
with  closed  eyes,  constantly  rocking  to 
and  fro: 

"We  must  obey  the  law  under  which 
we  were  born  .  .  .  must  we  not,  Cordt  ? 
After  all,  we  are  modern  people  .  .  .  both 
of  us.  Tired,  empty  people,  if  you  like. 
But  we  do  think  and  feel  otherwise  than 
people  did  when  .  .  .  when  they  were  the 
sort  of  people  whom  you  like.  And  we 
cannot  alter  ourselves.  But  we  can  be 
as  happy  as  it  is  possible  to  be  ...  now- 
adays, being  what  we  are.  Why  should 
we  not  be  happy,  Cordt  ? " 

"I  am  not  happy." 

73 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Oh,  Cordt!" 

She  pressed  her  hands  together  and 
wrung  them  and  bent  over  them  so  that 
her  tears  fell  upon  them.  Then  she 
turned  her  wet  face  to  him  and  asked, 
softly : 

"Then  am  I  no  longer  pretty,  Cordt  ?" 

He  stood  up  and  kissed  her  white  fore- 
head: 

"That  you  are,"  he  said.  "But  that 
won't  help  us  any  longer." 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down.  Fru 
Adelheid  wept  hard  and  silently.  A 
little  later,  she  said: 

"You  are  driving  me  away  from  you, 
Cordt.  I  do  so  want  to  tell  you  this, 
while  there  is  still  time,  if  only  I  could  find 
the  right  words.  Won't  you  sit  down  a 
little,  Cordt?  My  head  aches  so." 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair.  Then  she 
rose  and  put  some  wood  on  the  fire  and 
sat  down  again: 

74 


CORDT 


"  I  am  so  afraid  of  myself  when  we  talk 
together,  Cordt,"  she  said.  "It  is  not 
only  that  I  am  wicked  and  say  what  I  do 
not  mean.  I  do  that,  too.  But  you  are 
so  good.  And  you  show  me  thoughts 
in  my  mind  which  are  not  there  before 
you  utter  them.  But  then  they  come 
and  I  think  that  you  are  right  and  that 
they  have  been  there  always.  That  is 
so  terrible,  Cordt." 

They  sat  silent.  Fru  Adelheid  closed 
her  eyes;  Cordt  moved  restlessly  in  his 
chair: 

"Adelheid,"  he  said.  .  .  .  "You  told 
me  that  evening  .  .  ." 

"You  must  not  say  that  .  .  .  you  must 
not." 

"Do  you  remember,  you  said  .  .  . 
about  the  wild,  red  love  .  .  .  that  it  was 
not  the  love  which  you  have  ? " 

She  shook  his  hand  and  pressed  it: 

"That  is  just  it,"  she  said.     "I  am 

75 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


grateful  to  you  because  you  were  so  good. 
And  because  you  did  not  take  it  ill.  But 
that  was  not  in  me,  Cordt.  I  did  not 
know  it.  But  then  you  said  it  ...  and 
made  me  say  .  .  .  what  I  said.  But  then, 
at  that  very  moment,  I  understood  that  it 
was  so.  And  that  made  me  feel  so  terribly 
bad  ...  as  I  did.  But  then  I  felt  a  sort 
of  secret  joy  ...  a  secret  treasure.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  richer  than  be- 
fore. I  was  no  longer  afraid  of  what 
may  come  .  .  .  for  women  sometimes 
think  of  that,  Cordt,  while  they  are  young, 
how  empty  everything  will  be,  when  that 
is  past." 

He  listened,  with  his  face  turned  to  the 
fire. 

"I  am  sure  that  there  is  not  a  man  who 
can  understand  that,"  she  said. 

And  then  she  lay  down  on  the  floor, 
with  her  chin  on  the  fender  .  .  .  and  her 

eyes  shone: 

76 


CORDT 


"A  woman  is  young  for  so  short  a 
time,"  she  said.  "And  she  is  always 
dreading  that  it  will  pass.  Can't  you 
understand,  when  she  suddenly  suspects 
that  there  is  something  greater  than  the 
greatest  .  .  .  and  then,  when  she  is  sad 
and  afraid  .  .  .  that  then  it  may  sud- 
denly dawn  upon  her  that  all  is  not  over 
yet?" 

Cordt  laughed: 

"It  is  a  poor  pleasure  to  be  the  great- 
est when  there  is  something  greater  still," 
he  said. 

But  Fru  Adelheid  shook  her  head: 

"  It's  not  like  that,  Cordt,"  she  said. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  walked 
up  and  down  many  times  and  it  was  silent 
in  the  room.  Then  he  sat  down  again 
beside  her  and  said: 

"What  you  say  is  true.  But  it  was  in 
you  and  I  am  glad  I  showed  it  to  you. 
I  could  not  do  differently,  when  I  once 

77 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


saw  it.  I  cannot  go  and  wait  until  an- 
other man  knocks  at  the  secret  door  of 
your  heart  and  offers  you  the  greatest  of 
all." 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  the  fender 
and  looked  at  him: 

"No,  Cordt,"  she  said.  "If  it  is  like 
that,  then  what  I  said  was  not  true." 

He  waved  his  hand  and  shook  his  head 
impatiently: 

"Not  to-day  or  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
"But  in  a  year,  or  two  years,  or  ten. 
And,  if  it  does  not  happen,  then  it  is  only 
an  accident." 

Then  she  moved  nearer  to  him  and 
laid  her  head  on  his  knee.  She  looked 
up  to  see  if  he  minded.  But  he  was  far 
away  in  his  thoughts  and  did  not  notice  it. 

She  suddenly  felt  peaceful  and  con- 
tented. She  was  glad  that  she  had  got 
it  said.  She  felt  as  if  it  was  removed  to 
a  distance  .  .  .  perhaps  it  was  quite  gone 
78 


CORDT 


.  .  .  she  could  not  understand  why  he 
continued  to  speak  of  it. 

And  what  he  said  about  another  man 
seemed  so  far  to  her  and  so  impossible. 
She  thought  about  it  as  though  it  con- 
cerned somebody  else: 

"I  love  you,  Cordt,"  she  said.  "And, 
if,  one  day,  another  man  came  and  I 
loved  him  .  .  .  could  I  help  it?" 

He  sprang  up  so  suddenly  that  she  had 
to  seize  the  arm  of  the  chair  lest  she  should 
fall: 

" No,"  he  said,  scornfully.  "You  could 
not." 

He  rushed  through  the  room  and  re- 
peated his  words  three  or  four  times. 
Fru  Adelheid  rose  from  the  floor  and  sat 
down  in  her  chair  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"The  man  who  hit  upon  that  ex- 
cuse did  a  fine  day's  work,"  said  Cordt. 
"  He  drove  out  of  the  world  a  great  por- 
tion of  men's  strength  to  live  their  lives." 

79 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


He  threw  himself  so  violently  into  his 
chair  that  Fru  Adelheid  started.  Then 
he  sat  long  quiet  and  she  was  glad  that 
he  was  silent. 

"Why  should  one  not  be  able  to  con- 
trol one's  heart  ? "  he  said,  at  last.  "  Sup- 
pose I  have  a  wife  and  child;, and  my  wife 
is  she  whom  I  myself  chose.  Then,  one 
day,  I  meet  another  woman,  who  rouses 
my  desires.  I  meet  her  at  a  party,  where 
there  are  lights  and  wine  and  music  .  .  . 
we  are  not  ourselves,  she  and  I  ...  we 
are  in  another  mood  than  usual  .  .  . 
everything  is  done  to  lead  us  from  the 
way  by  which  we  go  on  ordinary  days. 
But  why  should  I  not  be  able  to  step 
aside,  in  loyal  gratitude  for  that  which 
I  possess?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  at  intervals  and 
closed  them  again.  She  heard  what  he 
said,  but  did  not  realize  that  he  was  speak- 
ing to  her. 

80 


CORDT 


"Who  is  it  that  placed  love  outside  the 
laws  ?  If  I  take  it  into  my  head  to  kill  a 
fellow-creature,  there  is  no  doubt  but 
that  I  am  indulging  a  most  criminal 
fancy.  If  I  have  given  my  word  and  think 
of  breaking  it,  I  am  no  gentleman.  But 
my  heart  may  do  as  it  pleases." 

"Yes,"  said  Fru  Adelheid. 

She  was  thinking  of  nothing  when  she 
spoke  and  he  did  not  hear  her. 

"There  are  people,  we  know,  who  have 
the  right  to  send  thousands  to  their 
death,"  he  said.  "There  are  people 
whose  passion  rises  skywards  in  red 
flames  and  devours  the  poor  chattels  that 
stand  in  its  way  and  lights  up  all  the  land. 
Poets  sing  about  it  and  a  wax  taper  burns 
before  its  image  in  every  human  heart. 
But,  if  a  man  plays  the  Napoleon  in  the 
Store  Brondstraede,  we  hang  him.  .  .  . 
Why  should  every  second  woman  be  en- 
titled to  look  upon  herself  as  an  Heloise  ? " 

81 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


He  sank  into  his  chair  and  stared  be- 
fore him: 

"I  am  not  sure  either  whether  the  radi- 
ance of  the  one  great  flame  makes  up 
for  the  thousand  tiny  lights  that  are  put 
out.  Does  any  one  know,  I  wonder? 
Can  any  one  measure  it?" 

Fru  Adelheid  moved  and  Cordt  turned 
his  face  to  her  and  looked  at  her  atten- 
tively. Her  eyes  were  soft  and  dreamy; 
she  smiled  faintly,  like  a  drowsy  child. 

"And  //  that  be  so,"  he  said,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice,  "if  it  be  the  case  that  I  am 
not  able  to  control  my  heart  .  .  ."  He 
let  his  head  fall  heavily  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair.  "//  it  be  the  case  that  love  makes 
me  happy  and  confident,  so  that  I  build 
my  life  and  the  life  of  my  family  upon  it 
...  if  it  can  then  expire,  without  my 
knowing  how  or  why,  and  I  have  to 
look  for  the  mother  of  my  children  in 

a  strange  man's  bed,  then  why  do  I  let 

82 


CORDT 


my  wife  go  out  in  the  street  unveiled  ? 
Why  do  I  not  lock  her  up,  as  the  Turk 
does  ?  Or  why  do  we  not  kill  the  mother 
when  the  child  is  born  ? " 

He  rose  and  walked  round  the  room 
and  grew  calmer  as  he  walked: 

"But  it  is  not  so,"  he  said.  "Let  the 
great  keep  their  greatness  ...  let  the 
poets  celebrate  them  and  the  puny  mod- 
erns ape  them  in  their  wretched  way. 
And  may  there  always  be  women  who 
cannot  give  themselves  more  than  once 
and  men  who  love  them." 

He  stood  by  the  fire  and  looked  through 
the  room.  It  was  still  on  every  side;  the 
church-clock  struck  two. 

"See,  Adelheid,"  he  said,  "how  life 
passes  more  and  more  into  law's  domain. 
Every  day,  the  liberty  of  the  one  is  taken 
for  an  encroachment  upon  the  rights  of 
the  other.  Every  day,  land,  hitherto  free 
of  law,  is  regulated  by  law.  Flowers  be- 
83 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


get  no  flowers  without  the  gardener's  con- 
sent; animals  no  longer  select  their  own 
mates.  But  no  one  can  control  his  heart; 
and  human  beings  pair  like  dogs  in  the 
street." 

The  fire  had  burnt  out  when  Cordt 
woke  from  his  musings. 

He  saw  that  Fru  Adelheid  was  asleep. 
He  stood  before  her  a  long  time,  sick  with 
compassion  for  her  and  for  himself. 

Then  he  stroked  her  gently  on  the  hair: 

"It  is  late  .     .Adelheid." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"I  COULD  wish  we  were  not  married, 
Cordt,"  said  Fru  Adelheid. 

She  laid  her  arms  across  her  breast  and 
looked  at  him  with  deep,  dark  eyes: 

"  I  could  wish  I  were  your  mistress.  If 
it  meant  that,  all  would  be  over  and  done 
with  in  the  morning.  Then  there  would 
be  no  more  of  this  unpleasantness.  And 
no  fear,  either.  And  the  joys  we  have 
would  be  all  the  fairer." 

He  stood  by  the  fire  and  played  with 
the  keys  in  his  pocket. 

"Then  your  forehead  would  be  smooth 
and  your  eyes  bright,  Cordt,  for  then  you 
would  be  making  love  to  me." 

He  looked  up  and  said  gently: 

"  Don't  I  make  love  to  you,  Adelheid  ? " 

85 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


She  sighed  and  said  nothing.  Cordt 
sat  down  in  his  chair  and  time  passed. 
Then  he  asked: 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  say,  Adelheid?" 

"I  am  longing  to  hear  what  you  will 
say  next." 

"I  read  something  similar  to  what  you 
have  been  saying  in  a  book  lately,"  he 
said.  "  I  forget  what  the  book  was  called. 
I  was  looking  into  it  ...  just  where  the 
author  railed  against  marriage,  with  its 
security  and  its  habits  and  all  that.  I 
have  read  exactly  the  same  thing  in  a 
hundred  books,  I  think." 

"Yes  .  .  .  they  all  sing  the  same  song," 
she  replied.  "  It  is  not  particularly  enter- 
taining. But  it  is  true  enough,  I  dare- 
say." 

Cordt  struck  his  hands  together  lightly: 

"It  is  curious  how  little  imagination 
the  poets  have  nowadays,"  he  said.  "One 
would  think  there  were  only  half  a  dozen 

86 


CORDT 


women,  whom  they  have  all  kissed  and 
married  and  run  away  from.  I  wonder 
that  it  never  occurs  to  one  of  them  to 
glorify  custom." 

Cordt  pulled  his  chair  forward  and  sat 
with  his  head  in  his  hands  and  looked 
into  the  fire: 

"If  I  were  a  poet,  I  would  sing  a  song 
in  honour  of  sacred  custom,"  he  said. 
"Would  you,  Cordt?" 
"Yes,  yes  ...  that  I  would." 
He  laid  his  head  back  and  listened  to 
the  gale  whistling  in  the  chimney: 

"Now  just  look,  Adelheid,  at  two  people 
thrown  into  each  other's  arms  by  the 
strongest  power  on  earth.  For  them  there 
exists  neither  day  nor  night,  neither  time 
nor  place.  The  whole  earth  is  fragrant 
with  violets.  Their  joy  is  terror  and  their 
terror  is  full  of  exultant  gladness*  Then 
a  child  lies  in  her  lap  and  the  light  in  her 
eyes  is  deeper  than  before.  And  then 
87 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


the  years  go  by  ...  there  are  fewer  vio- 
lets on  the  earth  as  the  years  go  by,  Adel- 
heid.  She  bears  her  children  in  pain. 
And  the  pain  sears  her  cheek.  The 
children  have  sucked  her  breast  dry;  her 
eyes  are  weary  with  the  night-watches. 
The  stranger  who  passes  the  house  sees 
only  the  faded  woman.  But  he  who  drank 
intoxication  from  her  young  eyes  and 
kissed  the  strength  of  her  bosom  ...  he 
does  not  see  it.  He  has  grown  accustomed 
to  that  woman.  She  has  quenched  the 
longing  of  his  youth  and  given  him 
peaceful  happiness  instead." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while.  Then  he 
turned  his  face  towards  her: 

"He  does  not  live  in  his  first  eager 
longing  for  the  trysting-hour,  but  con- 
fidently seeks  his  accustomed  couch  by 
her  side.  Custom  has  gently  bound  the 
two  people  into  one  family.  Is  that  not 
beautiful,  Adelheid  ?  And  good  ? " 


CORDT 


"Yes,"  she  said.  "It  is  beautiful,  as 
you  tell  it.  But  it  is  not  youth." 

"Then  what  is  youth,  Adelheid?" 

"Youth  is  not  rest." 

"Then  one  should  not  marry  before 
one  is  old,"  said  Cordt.  "For  marriage 
is  rest.  Deep,  powerful,  happy  .  .  .  gen- 
erating rest." 

"No  more  one  should,"  replied  Fru 
Adelheid.  "And  that  is  why  I  could 
wish  I  were  your  mistress." 

She  looked  at  him,  as  she  said  this,  and 
he  at  her. 

Then  he  stood  up  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  back  of  her  chair  and  bent  close 
down  to  her: 

"How  far  estranged  from  each  other 
we  have  become!"  he  said. 

And  Fru  Adelheid  nodded  sadly  and 
Cordt  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by  the 
fire  again: 

"  In  vain  I  pitch  my  call  in  every  key," 
89 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


he  said.  "  It  has  availed  me  nothing  that 
my  ancestor  built  this  room  ...  his  heirs 
have  borne  witness  here,  generation  after 
generation,  to  no  purpose." 

A  gust  of  wind  came  and  blew  the 
balcony-door  open. 

Fru  Adelheid  shuddered  and  looked 
that  way,  while  Cordt  went  and  closed  it. 
Then  he  remained  standing  by  the  ce- 
lestial globe  and  pressed  the  spring: 

"I  so  often  think  of  the  poor  man  who 
placed  this  toy  up  here,"  he  said.  "He 
was  a  man  who  could  not  be  content  with 
the  circle  in  which  he  moved.  So  he  lost 
his  reason  and  devoted  himself  to  play- 
ing with  the  stars.  .  .  .  For  us  modern 
people  it  is  different  .  .  .  the  other  way 
round.  We  go  mad  because  the  circle  in 
which  we  move  is  too  large.  We  leave 
the  stars  to  the  babies.  We  play  ball  with 
bigger  things.  We  try  a  fall  with  God 

Himself,  if  the  fancy  takes  us  ...  pro- 
go 


CORDT 


vided  that  we  have  not  outgrown  that 
plaything  too!  We  dare  not  speak. of 
love  and  we  smile  at  marriage.  We  de- 
spise courage  and  do  not  believe  in  hon- 
esty and  each  of  us  has  his  own  opinion 
about  virtue." 

She  heard  what  he  said  even  as  people 
listen  to  music  when  it  does  not  so  very 
much  matter  if  they  catch  every  note. 

"Then  it  happens  that  we  long  for  a 
fixed  point  in  our  lives  .  .  .  just  one  point. 
Something  that  cannot  be  pulled  to  pieces 
and  discussed.  And  something  that  is 
not  past." 

Cordt  sat  and  moved  about  in  his  chair 
and  could  not  settle  down: 

"If  I  were  to  put  anything  in  this 
room,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  a  little  tiny 
house  .  .  .  from  far  away  in  the  country. 
There  would  be  only  one  door  and  two 
windows  and  it  would  be  evening  and  the 
smoke  would  rise  up  gently  from  the 
91 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


chimney.  The  house  would  have  to  be 
as  small  as  could  be;  but  that  would 
show  that  there  was  no  room  for  doubt 
inside  it.  Husband  and  wife  would  go 
in  and  out  of  the  door  to  the  end  of  their 
days." 

Now  she  heard  what  he  said  and  looked 
at  him. 

"That  is  what  my  marriage  ought  to 
be,  Adelheid.  If  I  had  had  any  talent,  I 
daresay  it  would  have  been  different.  Or 
if  I  had  to  work  for  my  bread.  .  .  .  And 
I  am  no  different  from  other  men  of  to- 
day ...  no  stronger,  no  braver.  I  know 
nothing  about  God  and  I  have  no  ex- 
cessive belief  in  men." 

He  had  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke 
without  looking  at  her.  But  she  under- 
stood that  he  was  listening  for  a  word 
from  her  and  her  heart  wept  because  she 
had  nothing  to  say  to  him. 

"My  fixed  point,"  he  said. 
92 


CORDT 


Then  he  was  silent  for  a  little.  But, 
soon  after,  he  rose  and  stood  with  his 
arm  on  the  back  of  her  chair  and  spoke 
again: 

"There  was  also  something  in  what  I 
used  to  see  at  home.  Father  and  mother 
were  so  kind  .  .  .  and  so  strong.  I  see 
them  before  me  now,  as  they  used  to  kiss 
each  other  after  dinner,  however  numer- 
ous the  company  might  be.  And  they 
kissed  each  other  good-morning  and  good- 
night until  they  died.  And  when  father 
and  his  brother  met  in  the  street,  they 
always  kissed  .  .  .  people  used  to  laugh 
.  .  .  and  it  was  such  a  pretty  habit." 

While  he  spoke,  she  sought  for  an  op- 
portunity to  interrupt  him. 

"My  family-feeling  has  always  been 
too  strong,"  he  said.  "Until  now.  And 
yet  ...  I  once  had  a  sweetheart  .  .  ." 

He  stopped.  Fru  Adelheid  sat  up  and 
looked  at  him.  Her  eyes  shone. 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


"Or  a  connection,  if  you  like  .  .  ." 

"You  never  told  me  about  that!"  she 
said. 

Cordt  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
her  and  she  lowered  her  eyes. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  he  said. 

Then  he  said  no  more,  but  went  to  the 
window  and  stood  there. 

And  Fru  Adelheid  again  felt  small  and 
ill  at  ease  in  the  big  old  chair. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CORDT  stood  on  the  threshold  and 
waited,  but  then  closed  the  door  and  went 
to  the  fire. 

He  was  in  dress-clothes  and  tired  and 
pale  and  his  eyes  were  bright  with  wine. 
When  he  had  been  sitting  for  a  little 
while,  it  grew  too  warm  for  him  and  he 
drew  his  chair  to  the  balcony-door.  There 
he  sat  and  let  his  hands  play  with  the  red 
flowers. 

Fru  Adelheid  did  not  see  him  when  she 
entered. 

She  moved  slowly  and  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  when  she  discovered 
that  he  was  not  by  the  fireplace.  She  was 
surprised  at  this,  but  soon  forgot  it,  in 
her  gaiety  and  her  lingering  excitement 
at  the  evening's  entertainment,  with  her 

95 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


mind  full  of  bright  and  clever  phrases 
and  the  lights  gleaming  in  her  great  eyes. 

She  sat  down  to  the  spinet  and  laid  her 
forehead  against  the  keys.  Something 
was  singing  inside  her;  her  foot  softly 
beat  the  carpet. 

Then  she  sought  among  the  music  and 
sang: 

Lenore,  my  heart  is  wrung. 
Thine  is  so  dauntless,  thine  is  so  young. 
Tell  me,  Lenore,  the  truth  confessing 
(Which  never  were  mine  by  guessing) : 
Whence  do  thy  soul's  fresh  fountains  pour  ? 
Where  the  mountains  dip  or  the  valleys  soar  ? 
Tell  me,  the  truth  confessing; 
Open  to  me  youth's  door. 

Lenore,  my  heart  is  sad. 
Thine  is  so  constant,  thine  is  so  glad. 
Teach  me  thine  equable  gait  to  borrow; 
Teach  me  laughter  and  sorrow. 
My  heart  is  a  desert,  sterile  and  bare; 
My  heart  is  thine:   do  thou  whisper  there 
Of  a  fount  that  shall  flood  to-morrow, 
Of  a  sun  that  shall  gild  God's  air. 
96 


CORDT 


She  put  one  hand  on  the  music-sheet 
and  played  with  the  other  and  hummed 
the  tune  again. 

Then  Cordt  clapped  his  hands  in  ap- 
plause. She  started  and  her  hand  fell 
heavily  on  the  key-board: 

"How  you  frightened  me,  Cordt!" 

He  came  and  stood  beside  the  spinet. 
Fru  Adelheid  looked  at  his  face  and 
sighed.  Then  she  stood  up,  put  the  music 
away  and  went  and  sat  in  a  chair  by  the 
fireplace: 

"Won't  you  come  here,  Cordt?" 

Cordt  walked  to  and  fro  again  and  up 
and  down. 

"Sit  down  here  for  a  little,"  she  said. 

"Why  should  I  ?"  he  asked.  "You  are 
not  here,  you  know." 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  calm  eyes. 

"You  are  still  down  below,  among  the 
crowd  of  our  guests.  Don't  you  know 
that,  Adelheid  ?  They  are  all  empty  car- 

97 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


riages  that  drove  out  at  the  gate.  For,  as 
each  one  came  to  shake  hands  and  say 
good-bye,  you  entreated  him  to  stay  a 
little  longer." 

Fru  Adelheid  sighed  and  crossed  her 
hands  in  her  lap.  He  stood  up  by  the 
fireplace  so  that  he  could  see  her  face. 

"I  was  sitting  over  there  among  the 
flowers,  when  you  came  in,  and  I  saw  it 
all.  You  entered  with  a  gleam  and  a 
rustle,  accompanied  by  the  whole  throng 
.  .  .  you  were  the  fairest  of  them  all.  By 
your  side  went  Martens,  supple  and  hand- 
some. A  long  way  after  came  his  wife 
.  .  .  the  woman  who  wears  those  tired 
eyes  and  that  painful  smile.  She  did 
not  even  look  to  see  to  whom  he  was 
offering  his  homage." 

She  puckered  her  forehead  and  looked 
at  him  angrily. 

"Then  he  begged  you  to  sing  the  song 

once  more  and  they  crowded  round  you 

98 


CORDT 


and  added  their  entreaties  to  his.  You 
crossed  the  floor  .  .  .  with  your  slow, 
sure  gait.  .  .  .  You  always  walk  in  the 
same  way,  Adelheid  .  .  .  like  one  who  is 
not  to  be  stopped.  Your  white  dress 
trailed  behind  you;  there  was  silence  in 
the  room." 

Cordt  ceased  for  a  moment.  Fru 
Adelheid  laid  her  head  back  in  the  chair 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Then  you  sang  ...  his  song  .  .  .  the 
one  you  were  singing  a  minute  ago  at 
the  old  spinet.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  heard  me 
applauding,  Adelheid.  He  stood  beside 
you  and  looked  at  you  .  .  .  deferentially, 
happily.  And  you  looked  at  him  to  read 
in  his  eyes  how  charming  you  were." 

"How  wicked  you  make  it  all  seem!" 
she  said. 

Cordt  bent  over  her: 

"Look  at  me,  Adelheid." 

She  looked  at  him  and  was  afraid. 

99 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"How  dare  you  come  up  here  with 
your  retinue  ?"  he  asked.  "Up  here  .  .  . 
to  me  ...  in  this  room  ?  Look  at  me, 
Adelheid.  Is  there  not  room  enough  in 
the  house  besides  ?  Are  there  not  a 
hundred  houses  in  the  town  where  you 
can  play  the  game  you  love  ? " 

Fru  Adelheid  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  him: 

"Cordt!" 

But  his  eyes  were  large  and  stern  and 
she  could  not  bear  to  look  into  them. 

Then  she  rose  and  stood  before  him 
with  bowed  head: 

"Shall  I  go,  Cordt?"  she  asked,  softly. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  crossed  the 
room.  And  Fru  Adelheid  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  big  chair,  as  if  she  were 
not  at  home  in  the  room. 

"Yes  .  .  .  Martens,"  he  said. 

"You  were  not  at  all  friendly  to  him 
this  evening,  Cordt." 


CORDT 


She  said  this  in  order  to  say  something 
and  without  thinking,  but  regretted  it  at 
the  same  moment  and  looked  at  him  de- 
jectedly. But  he  made  a  gesture  with 
his  hand  and  answered,  calmly: 

"Indeed  I  was.  As  friendly  as  he 
could  wish  and  a  great  deal  more  so  than 
I  feel." 

He  stood  by  the  mantel  and  looked 
down  before  him.  She  took  his  hand  and 
laid  her  cheek  against  it: 

"Martens  is  nothing  to  me,"  she  said. 

"No,"  said  Cordt.  "Not  really.  It  is 
not  the  man  ...  it  is  men.  It  has  not 
gone  so  far  as  that.  But  it  has  gone 
farther." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said, 
sadly. 

"  It  is  not  a  man,  a  good  man  or  a  bad 
one,  that  is  wooing  your  heart  and  has 
won  or  is  trying  to  win  it.  Martens  is 
not  my  rival.  He  does  not  love  you  and 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


he  is  not  trying  to  make  you  believe  that 
he  is.  He  does  not  lie.  That  is  not  called 
for  nowadays,  except  among  the  lower 
classes.  With  us,  we  rarely  see  so  much 
as  the  shade  of  a  scandal.  Whence  should 
we  derive  the  strength  that  is  needed  for 
a  rupture,  a  separation,  a  flight  from  so- 
ciety ?  It's  a  soldier  that  tells  his  girl 
that  she  is  his  only  love  ...  a  journey- 
man smith  that  kills  his  faithless  sweet- 
heart ...  a  farm-girl  that  drowns  herself 
when  her  lover  jilts  her  for  another." 

He  drew  away  his  hand  and  folded  his 
arms  across  his  chest. 

"Martens  is  no  Don  Juan.  It  is  not 
his  passion  that  infatuates  women,  not 
his  manly  courage  and  strength  that  wins 
them.  He  carries  his  desires  to  the  back- 
streets;  he  takes  his  meals  with  his  wife. 
He  cannot  love.  The  women  become 
his  when  he  covets  them,  but  he  has  never 
belonged  to  any  woman.  His  eyes,  his 


CORDT 


words,  his  ditties  sing  love's  praises  with 
a  charming,  melancholy  languor  which 
no  woman  can  resist.  Then  he  lays  his 
head  in  her  lap  and  tells  her  of  his  per- 
petual yearnings  and  his  perpetual  disap- 
pointments. He  unbosoms  himself  to  her 
and  begs  her  not  to  betray  him.  Then 
she  loves  him.  And  she  is  his  ...  to 
any  extent  he  pleases." 

She  tried  to  speak;  but  Cordt  shook  his 
head  in  denial  and  she  sighed  and  was 
silent. 

"He  is  no  longer  young.  But  that 
makes  no  difference.  He  was  never 
young.  His  unbounded  susceptibility, 
his  eternal  readiness  make  him  young  in 
the  women's  eyes,  as  though  he  were  a 
woman  in  man's  clothing.  His  limp  sen- 
suousness  has  permeated  every  fibre  of 
his  body  and  his  soul  ...  so  much  so 
that  it  affects  his  every  word,  look  and 

thought.     He  is  destitute  of  will  and  in- 

103 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


sipid  and  sickly  and  untrustworthy.  He 
is  never  hungry  and  he  is  insatiable.  He 
swallows  women  and  spits  them  out  again 
.  .  .  with  morbid  longings  and  a  despond- 
ent temper  and  a  diminished  strength  to 
live  their  lives." 

"Cordt!  .  .  .  Cordt!  .  .  .  What  is  he  to 
me  ?  ...  What  is  he  to  us  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  said: 

"  Martens  tends  the  garden  in  which  you 
pluck  your  flowers.  He  is  the  chief  gar- 
dener. But  he  is  only  one  of  a  thousand. 
In  the  main,  these  passion-hunters  are  all 
alike.  Shall  I  introduce  them  to  you?" 

"No,  Cordt." 

"I  can  do  so  without  hurting  the  feel- 
ings of  any  of  them  by  mentioning  their 
names,"  he  said.  "You  will  recognize 
them  all.  You  will  recognize  them  at 
once." 

"Cordt!" 

104 


CQRDT 


But  Cordt  did  not  hear. 

"  You  will  remember  the  man  of  whom 
we  all  know  that  he  has  many  mistresses, 
even  though  we  can  say  nothing  to  his 
face.  He  often  takes  a  new  one.  Then 
he  has  one  more  .  .  .  that  is  all  ...  for 
he  never  lets  go  the  old  ones." 

"That  will  do,  Cordt." 

"Then  there  is  the  man  who  tells  his 
fair  friends  that  he  has  only  loved  one 
woman  in  his  life  and  that  is  his  mother. 
Have  you  ever  observed  the  part  which 
the  mother  plays  in  these  worn-out  men's 
imaginations  ?  In  their  books  ...  in 
their  love  .  .  .  she  is  the  emblem  for  their 
morning  head-aches,  their  impotent  com- 
punctions. Her  business  it  is  to  soothe 
their  worm-eaten  thoughts  .  .  .  they 
whisper  her  name  while  they  kiss  their 
lady-loves.  I  don't  know  which  is  the 
greater  insult:  that  offered  to  the  mother 
or  to  the  mistress." 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Fru  Adelheid  tried  to  rise,  but  just 
then  he  passed  so  close  to  her  that  she 
could  not  move.  So  she  remained  sitting, 
weary  and  racked,  and  he  went  round  the 
room  and  stopped  here  and  there  while  he 
spoke: 

"These  are  the  men  to  whom  our  wives 
belong,"  he  said.  "  And  they  do  not  take 
them  away,  so  that  we  can  bemoan  their 
loss  and  get  new  wives  in  their  stead. 
They  are  content  to  nibble  the  crest  of 
the  tree  of  love,  which  we  have  planted 
in  our  garden,  and  to  leave  it  to  stand 
and  thrive  as  best  it  can." 

Fru  Adelheid  stood  up  before  him  with 
moist  eyes  and  quivering  lips: 

"Cordt!" 

But  Cordt's  face  was  white  with  anger 
and  she  could  not  find  a  word  to  say. 

"  Do  I  amuse  you,  Adelheid  ? "  he  asked. 

She  went  to  her  place  by  the  chimney 
and  sat  down  again: 

106 


CORDT 


"You  are  putting  out  all  my  lights," 
she  said. 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  went 
on  talking: 

"A  man's  honest  love  goes  for  nothing, 
when  one  of  these  gentry  has  laid  eyes  on 
his  wife.  Then  he  is  degraded  to  the 
mere  husband  ...  a  dull  and  clumsy 
person  .  .  .  the  owner  of  something  which 
he  cannot  own.  Then  there  awakes  in 
my  wife's  mind  a  longing  for  something 
which  she  does  not  possess.  Her  peace  has 
turned  into  weariness  and  the  love  which 
her  marriage  offered  into  an  empty  cus- 
tom. She  resigns  herself.  And  the  silly 
words  of  every  silly  book  sing  in  her 
ears.  She  knows  that  no  love  endures 
for  ever  .  .  .  that  marriage  is  odious. 
Impatient  sighs  rise  up  in  her  soul,  em- 
bitter her  days  and  sadden  her  nights. 
Then  she  changes  the  gold  of  love  for 

small   coin   and    fritters  it   away,   while 

107 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


the  lights  shine  forth  and  the  music 
strikes  up." 

He  folded  his  hands  about  his  neck  and 
stood  by  her  chair  and  looked  before  him : 

"Adelheid,"  he  said  ...  "I  cannot 
understand  that  the  men  who  occasion 
this  state  of  things  are  allowed  to  go  free 
among  us.  And  we  honor  them  as  the 
most  distinguished  of  mankind.  When 
we  see  a  poor  cripple,  a  shudder  comes 
over  us  ...  am  I  not  right,  Adelheid  ? 
We  are  disgusted  with  a  face  full  of  pain. 
But  these  lepers  beam  before  our  eyes 
with  a  radiance  and  a  beauty  that  know 
no  equal." 

He  walked  up  and  down  for  a  while  and 
time  passed  and  there  was  silence  in  the 
room. 

Then  he  sat  down  in  his  chair,  where  it 
stood  by  the  balcony-door,  among  the  red 
flowers. 

He  was  tired  and  closed  his  eyes.     Now 

108 


CORDT 


and  then,  he  opened  them,  when  a  car- 
riage drove  across  the  square  or  a  cry 
sounded.  Then  he  closed  them  again 
and  fell  into  a  drowsiness  in  which  every- 
thing was  present  to  him  and  painful. 

And  then  suddenly  he  started  up. 

Fru  Adelheid  was  lying  before  him  on 
the  floor,  with  her  cheek  against  his  knee. 
His  hand  was  wet  with  her  tears. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Cordt!" 

He  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing. 

"Cordt  .  .  .  when  you  speak  like  that 
...  it  is  true  .  .  .  true  for  me  also.  .  .  . 
It  is  all  so  good  and  so  beautiful  .  .  . " 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  to 
his  feet: 

"Be  very  careful  what  you  do,  Adel- 
heid," he  said.  "I  am  not  a  fashionable 
preacher,  working  up  your  nerves  and 
quieting  them  again  .  .  .  not  a  poet,  read- 
ing his  last  work  to  you.  I  am  your  hus- 
band, calling  you  to  account." 
109 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


He  crossed  the  room  and  then  returned 
and  stroked  her  hair: 

"It  is  beyond  our  strength,  Adelheid," 
he  said,  sorrowfully.  "God  help  us!" 

She  took  his  hand  and  laid  it  over  her 
eyes,  so  firmly  that  it  hurt  her. 

"If  the  old  God  were  still  here,  then 
we  could  go  down  on  our  knees  and  fold 
our  hands  together,  as  they  did  who  built 
this  room.  Would  that  not  be  good, 
Adelheid?" 

"Yes." 

"I  call  upon  Him,  Adelheid.  .  .  .  And 
upon  everything  in  the  world  that  is 
greater  than  my  own  power.  .  .  .  And 
upon  the  little  child  downstairs.  ..." 


CHAPTER  X 

FRU  ADELHEID  lay  on  the  floor  before 
her  chair  and  pulled  the  flowers  of  her 
bouquet  to  pieces.  Cordt  sat  with  his 
head  leaning  on  his  hand  and  looked  at 
the  flowers. 

"If  only  you  would  speak,  Cordt.  .  .  . 
If  only  you  would  ask  me  something. 
Why  don't  you  ask  me  something?" 

"What  can  I  ask  you?" 

"Ask  me  what  I  am  thinking  about. 
Why  I  have  come  home  so  early.  Why 
I  have  not  been  here  for  so  long." 

"I  know  all  that,  Adelheid." 

She  crossed  her  hands  on  her  knee  and 
swayed  to  and  fro  and  looked  at  him  with 
dark  and  angry  eyes: 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Is  there  anything  you  do  not  know, 
Cordt?" 

"No." 

"I  don't  think  so  either.  You  know 
the  right  and  the  wrong  of  everything  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth.  You  are  never 
in  doubt  and  never  at  a  loss.  You  know 
at  once  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad;  and 
then  you  go  away  and  do  what  is  good." 

He  shook  his  head  and  said  nothing 
and  she  grew  still  more  angry: 

"You  alone  know.  Whoever  does  not 
obey  you  is  lost.  There  is  no  room  in  the 
house  for  any  but  you  and  those  who 
serve  you." 

Cordt  bent  over  her  and  lifted  her  up 
in  the  chair. 

"Be  silent  for  a  little,  Adelheid,"  he 
said.  "And  stay  quiet  for  a  little." 

But  she  slipped  to  the  floor  again  and 
looked  at  him  defiantly: 

"  I  will  not  sit  in  that  chair,"  she  said. 


CORDT 


"Never  again.  I  am  not  worthy  of  the 
honor.  You  do  not  know  everything, 
Cordt.  You  do  not  know  me." 

He  stroked  her  hair  with  his  two  hands 
and  forced  her  head  back: 

"Then  show  yourself  to  me,"  he  said. 

She  released  her  head  and  her  eyes  grew 
moist: 

"You  must  not  be  good  to  me,"  she 
said.  "You  don't  know  me.  I  am  not 
the  woman  you  think." 

Then  she  laid  her  head  on  the  chair 
and  said,  softly: 

"I  am  so  sad,  Cordt." 

"You  will  be  glad  again." 

"I  daresay,"  she  said.  "But  I  shall 
always  be  sad." 

She  took  the  ruined  bouquet  and  laid 
it  on  the  chair  and  her  cheek  upon  it. 
She  closed  her  eyes.  Cordt  looked  at 
her — she  seemed  so  tired — and  they  were 
long  silent.  Then  she  said: 

"3 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"It  is  so  cold  in  here." 

And  then  silence  fell  upon  the  room 
again. 

"Cordt!" 

Fru  Adelheid  sat  with  her  back  against 
the  chair  and  stared  into  the  fire  with 
strange  eyes: 

"  Cordt ...  do  you  know  .  .  .  that  some- 
times, when  I  am  merriest  .  .  .  outside 
...  it  is  as  though  I  heard  little  children 
crying." 

He  sat  silent. 

"I  hear  little  children  crying,  Cordt. 
When  I  am  dancing  .  .  .  and  sometimes 
when  I  am  singing.  And  at  the  theatre 
.  .  .  when  there  are  many  lights  and  peo- 
ple and  I  am  happy  .  .  .  then  it  comes 
so  often.  Then  I  hear  little  children  cry- 
ing .  .  .  far,  far  away,  but  still  I  can  hear 
them  distinctly  ...  I  can  never  help 
hearing  them  .  .  .  Cordt  ...  do  you  know 

what  it  is  ? " 

114 


CORDT 


"Yes,  I  know,  Adelheid." 

Adelheid  looked  at  him  and  turned  her 
eyes  to  the  fireplace  again: 

"Sometimes  it  happens  differently," 
she  said.  "When  I  hear  a  child  crying 
.  .  .  when  it  is  really  a  child  crying  .  .  . 
a  strange  child,  which  has  nothing  to  do 
with  me,  which  I  know  nothing  at  all 
about  ...  I  needn't  even  see  it,  Cordt 
.  .  .  but  then  I  have  to  cry  myself/' 

She  was  silent  for  a  little.  Then  she 
turned  her  face  to  him  and  asked: 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is,  Cordt  ? " 

And  he  looked  at  her  calmly  and  said 
again : 

"Yes,  I  know,  Adelheid." 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  and  shook 
her  head  softly.  "I  love  our  little  boy 
and  love  to  have  him  with  me.  Don't  I, 
Cordt?" 

"Yes." 

"But   he   is   much   happier  with   old 

"5 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Marie.  He  prefers  to  be  with  her.  He 
puts  out  his  little  hands  to  me  when  I 
come  in.  But,  when  I  have  had  him  in 
my  arms  for  a  while,  he  wants  to  go  back 
to  Marie.  He  is  so  small  still." 

"Yes." 

"Sometimes  he  will  not  kiss  me  on  any 
account.  He  always  kisses  old  Marie." 

"When  she  comes  to  die,  we  will  put  a 
tombstone  on  her  grave,"  he  said.  "And 
on  the  stone  we  will  write,  '  Here  lies  one 
whom  the  children  in  the  house  kissed."' 

Fru  Adelheid  folded  her  hands  behind 
her  neck  and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling: 

"At  one  time,  you  used  to  tell  me  about 
your  mother  .  .  .  that  is  long,  long  ago, 
Cordt.  You  talked  of  her  so  often,  in 
those  days  .  .  .  why  do  you  never  do  so 
now?" 

"i  think  only  of  you." 

She  moved  nearer  to  him  and  laid  her 
head  on  his  knee: 

116 


CORDT 


"May  I  lie  like  this,  Cordt?" 

He  stroked  her  hair  and  left  his  hand 
lying  on  her  shoulder. 

"That's  nice,"  she  said. 

Cordt  looked  at  her  hair  and  stroked  it 
again.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  nestled 
up  against  him: 

"It  is  so  quiet  here,"  she  said.  "Now 
I  will  go  to  sleep." 

But  then  she  grew  restless  again.  She 
half  raised  herself  and  lay  on  her  knees, 
with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Her 
hair  had  become  undone  and  slipped 
down  over  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes  stared 
into  the  fire: 

"You  used  to  tell  me  that  your  mother 
undressed  you  every  night  when  you 
were  a  little  boy,"  she  said.  "And  every 
morning  she  dressed  you  .  .  .  always." 

"So  she  did." 

"You  said  that  it  so  often  made  her 

late  when  she  was  going  to  the  theatre 

117 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


...  or  else  she  would  get  up  from  the 
table  when  there  were  guests.  And 
your  father  used  to  be  so  angry  with 
her." 

He  nodded. 

"I  think  your  father  was  right,"  she 
said.  "  I  think  it  was  odd  of  your  mother 
.  .  .  not  quite  .  .  .  not  quite  natural." 

Cordt  pushed  the  hair  from  his  fore- 
head, but  said  nothing. 

"I  could  see  quite  well  that  you  would 
have  me  do  the  same.  But  I  couldn't  do 
it.  I  can't  do  it  as  well  as  old  Marie 
does  and  I  can't  see  that  that  is  necessary 
in  order  to  be  a  good  mother.  .  .  .  Then 
you  also  told  me  that,  one  evening,  when 
your  mother  had  to  go  out,  you  cried 
without  stopping  until  she  came  home 
again." 

"Yes." 

"But,  if  your  mother  had  been  like  me 
and  if  old  Marie  had  undressed  you  every 

118 


CORDT 


night,  then  it  would  have  been  she  whom 
you  would  have  cried  for." 

"So  it  would/'  he  replied.  "But  it 
was  good  for  me  and  good  for  herself  that 
it  was  mother." 

"I  don't  understand  that,"  she  said. 

But  then  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
at  him  with  great,  proud  eyes: 

"Yes  ...  I  understand,"  she  said.  "I 
understand  that  it  is  good  for  a  man  and 
gives  him  confidence  to  see  his  wife 
chained  to  her  baby's  cradle." 

"That  is  so,  Adelheid." 

He  looked  at  her  quietly  and  sadly  and 
her  defiance  was  broken  then  and  there: 

"How  strangely  you  say  that,"  she 
said.  "Cordt  ..." 

Then  she  laid  her  head  on  his  knee 
again  and  they  were  silent  for  a  time. 
Then  she  said: 

"  I  remember  the  evening  when  I  was 
going  to  my  first  grown-up  ball.  A  lady 
119 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


came  to  dress  my  hair.  I  was  so  solemn 
and  the  lady  so  talkative.  She  told  me 
that  I  was  pretty  and  that  I  was  sure  to 
be  married  soon;  therefore  I  must  lose 
no  time  and  dance  as  much  as  I  could; 
for,  once  a  girl  was  married,  she  had  to 
give  up  dancing.  I  asked  her  what  she 
meant  and  said  that  I  knew  many  married 
women  who  danced.  Then  she  told  me 
that  that  was  true  enough  and  that  there 
were  many  fine  ladies  who  did,  but  then 
they  danced  their  children  dead  and 
therefore  it  was  a  great  sin." 

He  moved  in  his  chair.  She  raised  her 
head  and  laid  it  on  his  knee  again: 

"Do  you  believe  that  we  can  dance 
our  children  dead,  Cordt?" 

He  did  not  reply,  but  stroked  her  cheek. 
But  she  pushed  his  hand  away  and  turned 
her  face  and  looked  at  him: 

"Do  you  believe  it,  Cordt?" 

He  nodded. 


CORDT 


Then  Fru  Adelheid  rose  awkwardly 
from  the  floor  and  stood  before  him. 
Slowly,  she  raised  her  hands  and  pressed 
them  against  her  temples. 

Cordt  sprang  up  and  took  her  hands 
firmly  in  his  own  and  drew  her  to  him. 
But  she  tore  herself  away  and  her  eyes 
stared  vacantly  into  his  and  did  not  see 
him. 

"Adelheid!" 

"Those  are  your  children  and  mine, 
Cordt  ...  the  little  children  who  cry 
when  I  am  merry  ...  the  children  who 
died  because  their  mother  danced  .  .  ." 

"Adelheid!" 

His  voice  was  very  soft  and  his  eyes 
very  gentle.  She  stared  into  them  and 
saw  a  gleam  in  their  depths.  She  under- 
stood that  he  was  rejoicing  within  him- 
self, because  he  thought  that  he  had  her 
as  he  wanted  her. 

He  put  out  his  hands  to  her  and  his 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


eyes  and  his  silent,  quivering  mouth  spoke 
a  thousand  loving  words  to  her.  She 
stood  stiff  and  cold  and  looked  at  him 
stiffly  and  coldly. 

And,  when  his  hands  touched  her,  she 
drew  from  him  and  pushed  her  chair 
far  back,  as  if  she  could  not  find  room 
enough: 

"You  do  not  understand  me,"  she 
said. 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  balcony- 
door  and  stood  there.  Then  she  came 
back  to  the  fireplace,  where  he  had  sat 
down,  and  looked  at  him  as  though  he 
were  a  stranger: 

"Those  little  children  who  cry,"  she 
said,  "what  do  they  cry  for?" 

He  raised  his  hands  and  let  them  fall  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"Why  do  they  cry?"  she  repeated. 
"Because  they  have  not  been  brought 
into  a  world  which  is  closed  to  them 


CORDT 


at  the  very  moment  when  they  see  its 
beauty  ?  .  .  .  Because  they  are  not  born 
to  die?" 

She  went  away  again  and  came  back 
and  sat  in  her  chair  with  a  strained  ex- 
pression on  her  face,  as  though  she  had 
to  explain  something  to  one  who  was  slow 
of  comprehension: 

"It's  no  use,'*  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  harsh.  She  swung  her 
body  to  and  fro  and  her  thoughts  hunted 
for  words  in  which  she  could  say  what  she 
wanted  in  such  a  way  that  it  would  be 
settled  once  and  for  all  and  could  not  be 
misunderstood. 

Then  her  looks  fell  on  Cordt,  as  he  sat 
there  by  her  side,  shattered  and  tired, 
with  closed  eyes  and  nerveless  hands. 
She  saw  the  pain  she  was  giving  him. 
She  wished  to  undo  and  repair  it  and  the 
tears  broke  out  in  her: 

"Cordt!" 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


She  took  his  hand  and  it  lay  lifeless  in 
hers. 

"Can't  you  help  me?" 

"No,  Adelheid." 

Then  her  mood  changed  about.  She 
pushed  herself  back  in  her  chair  and 
crossed  her  arms  over  her  breast: 

"Then  I  must  help  myself,"  she  said. 
"How  could  you,  either,  an  old  .  .  .  yes, 
an  old  man  like  you  ?" 

He  did  not  answer,  did  not  stir,  did 
not  look  at  her. 

"An  old  man  like  you,"  she  repeated, 
"who  long  for  peace  and  quiet  and  noth- 
ing else.  Then  you  give  out  that  that 
is  the  best  happiness  which  is  the  easiest 
and  the  cheapest  and  the  best  adapted  to 
domestic  use." 

Cordt  had  raised  himself  upright  in  his 
chair.  His  hands  lay  clenched  about  his 
knee,  his  eyes  blazed. 

"Then  you  put  the  woman  you  love 


CORDT 


in  your  mother's  chair  .  .  .  your  grand- 
mother's and  your  great-grandmother's 
chair  ..." 

He  flew  up  and  stood  before  her  with 
his  hands  on  his  hips  and  his  lips  pressed 
close  together: 

"Hold  your  tongue!" 

Fru  Adelheid  started  and  looked  at 
him  with  frightened  eyes: 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  like 
that,"  she  said. 

He  sat  down  again  and  threw  his  head 
back  in  his  chair,  with  his  face  turned 
away  from  her.  She  was  so  tired,  could 
not  find  the  words  she  wanted,  said  every- 
thing differently  and  in  another  tone  than 
that  in  which  she  thought  it. 

And,  as  he  quieted  down  beside  her, 
she  began  to  think  more  clearly  than 
usual  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  say  her  worst. 
Then  she  clenched  her  fists,  to  give  her- 
«s 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


self  strength,  and  closed  her  eyes  while  she 
spoke : 

"You  must  know  things  as  they  are, 
Cordt.  It  is  all  true,  as  you  have  seen 
it  and  as  you  have  said  it.  I  have  lied 
to  you,  Cordt.  I  lied  in  my  words  ...  I 
lied  every  time  I  came  up  here  and  sat 
with  you." 

Now  she  looked  at  him.  He  raised  his 
head  with  an  effort  and  met  her  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  his  face  away  again: 

"You  are  lying  now,"  he  said. 

She  opened  her  mouth  and  closed  it 
again,  so  that  her  teeth  struck  together. 

Then  she  crossed  her  hands  in  her  lap 
and  bent  over  them  and  wept: 

"I  don't  know  that,"  she  said. 

Cordt  stood  up  and  walked  across  the 
floor,  slowly  and  wearily  and  without 
thinking.  Fru  Adelheid's  tears  fell  into 
her  lap. 

They  were  in  this  room,  each  independ- 

126 


CORDT 


ent  of  the  other,  each  without  sympathy 
for  the  other.  Their  hearts  were  dead, 
their  thoughts  paralyzed.  They  were  no 
longer  two  people  who  loved  each  other 
and  who  strove  to  be  happy,  not  even  two 
who  were  angry  or  sorry  because  they 
were  to  be  parted.  They  were  just  two 
people  under  sentence  of  death,  whom 
chance  had  imprisoned  in  the  same  cell, 
but  who  had  nothing  else  in  common. 

Cordt  was  the  first  to  come  to  his  senses. 

He  was  standing  behind  her  chair 
and  the  scent  of  her  hair  awakened  him. 
He  bowed  deeper  over  her  and  remem- 
bered who  she  was.  He  looked  at  her 
hands,  which  were  wet  with  tears,  and  his 
heart  wept  with  her. 

Then,  at  that  moment,  he  saw  that  he 
must  spare  his  sympathy  if  he  wished  to 
keep  her.  And,  when  he  saw  this,  he  at 
once  realized  that  she  was  lost  to  him 

for  ever. 

127 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


He  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  sought 
for  the  words  which  he  should  say.  He 
felt  like  the  actor  who  has  to  deliver  the 
last  sentence  in  the  play,  while  the  audi- 
ence is  already  leaving,  because  the 
end  of  the  performance  is  there  and  the 
tension  over. 

"Adelheid!"  he  said. 

That  was  all  he  could  say.  She  under- 
stood what  was  passing  within  him  and 
was  speechless  too  and  wept  softly. 

And  the  night  sped  on. 

She  was  lying  on  the  floor  again,  where 
she  had  lain  before,  with  her  cheek  upon 
his  knee.  She  talked  .  .  .  hastily,  by  fits 
and  starts,  without  troubling  what  she 
said,  as  long  as  she  could  get  it  all  said. 

Cordt  leant  his  head  on  his  hand  and 
his  thick  hair  fell  over  his  forehead.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  opened  them  again, 

heard  what  she  said  and  forgot  it  again, 

128 


CORDT 


answered  from  time  to  time  and  knew  only 
that  it  was  over. 

"There  are  other  men  for  me  besides 
yourself  ...  it  is  true  ...  it  is  all  true. 
.  .  .  Ah,  Cordt,  may  I  say  it,  wicked  as  it 
is  ?  ...  And  you  will  be  kind  .  .  .  you 
understand  that  it  is  not  that  .  .  .  that  it 
is  not  infidelity  .  .  ." 

She  pressed  her  hands  together  and 
shook  her  head  in  despair: 

"Yes  ...  yes  ...  it  is  infidelity,  Cordt 
...  it  is.  ...  It  is,  because  it's  you 
.  .  .  and  because  I  understand  it  now. 
May  I  tell  you,  Cordt  .  .  .  may  !?...! 
love  the  desire  in  their  eyes.  ...  I  am 
curious  about  it.  ...  There  is  nothing  in 
it  that  insults  me.  ...  I  am  happy  in  it, 
I  even  try  to  kindle  it  ..." 

"Those  things  are  not  said  to  one's  hus- 
band, Adelheid." 

She  looked  at  him: 

"To  whom  shall  I  say  them,  then?" 
129 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


" Those  things  are  not  said." 

"Ah  .  .  .  well  ...  I  say  them.  I  will 
say  them.  Because  you  are  the  man  you 
are.  And,  also,  you  asked  me  about  it, 
Cordt  .  .  .  you  saw  it  and  wanted  to  save 
me  ...  that  was  why  you  spoke  to  me 
about  it,  wasn't  it  ?  ...  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was  .  .  .  now  I  do  know.  ...  I 
am  not  lying  now  .  .  .  but  I  did  not  know, 
before  you  said  it.  And  it  is  no  uglier 
for  me  ...  it  is  better  for  me.  .  .  .  Cordt, 
Cordt  ...  it  is  less  ugly  so." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept 
so  that  she  could  not  speak: 

"And  it  is  worse  still,  Cordt  ...  it  is 
worse  than  I  have  said  .  .  .  why  do  you 
not  turn  me  out  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  if  you  were 
only  dead,  Cordt!  .  .  .  Why  should  you 
be  so  unhappy  and  why  should  it  be  I 
that  make  you  so  ?  If  you  cast  me  away, 
it  will  be  only  what  I  deserve.  For  I 

know  that  it  is  you  I  love.  ...  I  know  it 

130 


CORDT 


now  as  I  never  knew  it  before  .  .  .  you 
are  the  man  that  was  destined  for  me  ..." 

She  seized  his  clothes  with  her  hands 
and  half  raised  herself,  so  that  her  white 
face  was  close  to  his: 

"Cordt  .  .  .  can't  you  wait  for  me?  .  .  . 
I  am  coming  .  .  ." 

Then  she  released  her  hold  and  sank 
in  a  heap  on  the  floor: 

"  No  ...  no  ...  I  cannot  do  what  you 
wish." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  before 
her  and  looked  into  the  fire: 

"It's  your  will  that  is  sick,  Adelheid," 
he  said. 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  stood 
at  the  balcony-door  and  looked  out.  Then 
he  came  back  and  sat  in  his  chair  again: 

"You  know  where  the  great  joy  lies. 
And  you  know  that  it  would  be  yours  and 
mine,  if  you  could  reach  it.  But  you  can- 
not. There  is  no  sense  of  perspective  in 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


your  life  .  .  .  everything  to  you  seems 
quite  close  or  quite  far,  quite  small  or  quite 
big.  You  are  like  Martens  and  the  others. 
You  belong  to  them,  because  your  will  is 
weak,  like  theirs.  You  are  becoming  like 
them." 

"No,  Cordt." 

"Yes,  you  are  like  them.  You  are  a 
woman  and  you  are  refined  and  therefore 
you  dread  the  mire.  But  you  belong  to 
them.  You  and  I  are  mortal  enemies. 
If  you  were  she  whom  my  son  had  chosen 
for  his  wife,  I  should  tremble  for  his  happi- 
ness. And  you  had  the  happiness  which 
you  seek  .  .  .  nay,  the  happiness  that  ex- 
ists. You  set  the  cup  to  your  lips  when 
you  were  young  enough  to  stand  wine  and 
old  enough  to  know  that  it  was  good." 

He  pushed  the  hair  from  his  forehead 
and  looked  round  the  room: 

"There   is   nothing  more   to  be   said. 

You  are  a  child  of  the  time  and  the  time 

132 


CORDT 


claims  you  as  its  own.  There  was  no 
sense  in  bringing  you  to  the  old  room." 

"No,  Cordt." 

"But  you  are  clever  and  you  are  re- 
fined and  you  have  seen  its  great,  silent 
beauty.  And,  one  day,  you  will  see  that 
happiness  lay  in  the  land  where  you  were 
and  you  sallied  forth  to  find  it  in  distant 
climes." 

"Yes,  Cordt." 

"You  will  see  that,  one  day.  But  then 
it  will  be  too  late.  Then  the  years  will 
be  gone.  Then  the  strings  of  the  old 
spinet  will  be  rusted  and  mute  and  the 
spinning-wheel  will  have  fallen  to  dust 
and  the  fire  died  out  in  the  chimney. 
Then  your  fancy  will  be  frightened  and 
bewildered,  like  the  bird  that  keeps  on 
flapping  against  the  window-pane.  Your 
faith  will  be  lost  and  your  modesty  turned 
to  unchastity." 

He  rose  and  went  across  to  the  balcony- 
133 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


door.     Fru  Adelheid  lay  with  her  cheek 
on  the  fender  and  with  closed  eyes. 

A  silence  hung  over  the  room  greater 
than  it  had  ever  known  before.  They 
both  of  them  felt  it  and  felt  it  as  the 
silence  when  pain  is  dumbed  at  the  ap- 
proach of  death.  They  no  longer  fought 
against  the  inevitable,  against  what  was 
stronger  than  themselves;  and  they  were 
so  tired  that  they  no  longer  thought  of 
the  defeat  which  they  had  suffered,  but 
only  smiled  in  the  peace  which  they  had 
won. 

And  the  night  sped  on. 

They  were  sitting  again  in  the  quaint 
old  chairs  and  looked  at  the  embers  that 
were  expiring  in  the  hearth.  The  candles 
were  nearly  burnt  out. 

They  were  both  of  them  very  gentle  and 
very  still.  It  seemed  years  since  they 
had  last  differed.  Their  faces  were  calm, 
134 


CORDT 


their  eyes  clear  and  sad,  when  they  looked 
at  each  other,  but  without  longing,  with- 
out anger  or  bitterness. 

And  they  looked  at  each  other  and 
talked  together  ...  of  that  which  was 
over. 

Their  words  had  lost  all  sting.  He 
held  her  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  as 
that  of  a  good  friend.  Once,  she  pushed 
his  hair  from  his  forehead  as  she  would 
have  done  to  a  child. 

"If  any  one  saw  us  sitting  here,  he 
would  not  understand  what  has  happened 
to  us,"  said  Cordt. 

"No." 

"And,  if  anyone  had  heard  every  word 
that  fell  between  us  in  this  room,  he  would 
perhaps  say  that  we  were  a  pair  of  simple- 
tons." 

Fru  Adelheid  shook  her  head: 

"  It  is  well  that  nothing  more  has  hap- 
pened to  us,"  she  said. 
135 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"I  don't  know,"  replied  Cordt. 

Then  he  let  go  her  hand  and  drew 
himself  up  in  his  seat: 

"Sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  easier 
if  there  were  an  action  that  had  to 
be  forgiven,"  he  said.  "Something  to 
be  forgotten.  Then  it  would  not  be 
over." 

"It  is  not  over,"  she  said.  "We  have 
missed  happiness,  because  I  did  not  keep 
the  measure  by  which  I  should  be  gauged. 
But  our  boy  down  below  lives  and  he 
can  win  a  wife  who  shall  sit  in  the  old 
room  with  honor." 

"  No,"  said  Cordt.  "  The  secret  of  the 
old  room  is  out.  It  does  not  suit  these 
times  and  still  less  the  times  to  come. 
Our  son  shall  not  see  his  happiness  shat- 
tered here." 

And,  a  little  later,  he  pressed  his  hand 
hard  to  his  temples  and  said  so  softly  that 
she  just  heard  it: 

136 


CORDT 


"For  it  is  hard  to  decrease  one's  own 
happiness." 

The  candles  went  out  .  .  .  one  after 
the  other. 

"It  is  late,  Adelheid,"  he  said.  "We 
had  better  go." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

But  neither,  of  them  was  able  to. 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  sat 
steeped  in  the  same  thoughts,  afraid  to 
end  this  still  night,  which  was  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  bad  days. 

Then  the  last  candle  went  out. 

Cordt's  lamp  still  burnt  on  the  table, 
but  it  was  as  though  everything  in  the 
room  was  displaced  in  its  glow.  There 
was  darkness  where  light  had  been  be- 
fore and  great  shadows  on  the  wall. 

They  both  felt  it  as  something  uncanny 
and  involuntarily  moved  closer  together. 
137 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Sing  to  me,  Adelheid,"  he  said. 

She  went  to  the  spinet  and  sat  down  and 
looked  at  the  keys. 

"Sing  the  last  of  the  Lenore  songs." 

She  looked  over  her  shoulder,  but  could 
not  see  the  expression  on  his  face. 

Then  she  sang: 

When  death  comes,  come,  Lenore,  too: 

Thou  wert  Life's  beacon  rosy-red; 
And,  by  those  glad,  great  eyes  shot  through, 

In  that  same  instant,  Death  were  dead. 
So  am  I  never  Death's,  but  thine; 

No  tears  shed  I,  nor  once  complain: 
Set  only  thy  red  lips  to  mine 

And  take  thy  soul  again. 

I  shall  have  seen  for  the  last  time 

The  radiant,  loving  eyes  I  treasure; 
And  what  of  song  and  what  of  crime 

I  wrought  let  others  weigh  and  measure. 
But  thou  sometimes  wilt  not  forget, 

When  evening  creeps  across  the  pane, 
The  scent  of  shy  blue  violet 

That  sweetened  all  the  plain. 
138 


CORDT 


Cordt  was  standing  behind  her  chair 
when  the  song  was  finished.  She  did  not 
perceive  it,  but  sat  with  her  hands  on  the 
keys  and  softly  repeated  the  last  lines. 

He  looked  at  her  hair  and  her  hands 
and  at  the  white  dress  that  hung  over 
her  shoulders  and  her  lap.  He  knew  a$ 
he  had  never  known  before  what  he  had 
lost  and  knew  that  he  would  never  win  it 
back.  His  hands  trembled,  his  eyes 
burned.  He  thought  that  he  must  kill 
her  and  himself. 

Then  he  spoke  her  name. 

She  looked  up  and  looked  at  him. 

She  forgot  everything,  saw  nothing  but 
him.  He  could  see  it  in  her  great,  strange 
eyes  and  in  her  red  mouth. 

And  she  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  happi- 
ness and  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
carried  her  away. 


139 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  candles  on  the  mantelpiece  were 
lighted  and  their  gleam  fell  through  the 
balcony-door  over  the  square,  as  it  had 
done  every  evening  since  the  house  was 
built. 

Outside,  the  square  shone  with  a 
thousand  lights.  There  was  a  sound  of 
carriages,  but  at  a  distance,  for  the 
house  was  thrust  a  long  way  back  and 
its  walls  were  as  thick  as  the  walls  of 
a  castle. 

And,  when  time  passed  and  night  came, 
the  noise  died  away  and  you  could  hear 
the  rippling  of  the  fountain,  which  never 
begins  and  never  stops,  and  cries,  no  one 
knowing  what  they  are,  solitary  steps  that 
approach  and  retreat  again. 


CORDT 


Cordt  stood  by  the  fireplace  of  the 
empty  room. 

He  stared  at  the  places  where  the  quaint 
old  things  had  stood  which  had  seen  his 
race  pass  through  the  room. 

He  remembered  every  single  piece  that 
had  been  brought  there  and  looked  at  the 
empty  spot  where  each  had  stood.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  saw  everything  in  its 
place  again  .  .  .  the  spinet  sang  .  .  .  Fru 
Adelheid's  white  train  rustled  over  the 
carpet. 

He  thought  of  the  man  who  had  built 
the  house  and  the  room  and  who  had 
called  it  the  soul  of  the  house  and  its  tra- 
dition and  its  secret  chamber.  Of  all 
those  after  him  who  had  brought  their 
wives  in  here  ...  of  the  day  when  he 
himself  stood  in  the  room  for  the  first 
time. 

And  he  went  and  opened  the  secret 

recess  in  the  wall  which  hid  the  old,  yel- 

141 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


low  document  on  which  each  of  them  who 
took  possession  of  the  room  had  written 
his  name  and  his  wife's. 

He  read  the  report  of  the  builder  of 
the  house,  with  its  plain,  homely  phrases. 

And,  when  he  had  read  it  and  read  it 
again,  he  struck  out  his  own  name  and 
Fru  Adelheid's  and  went  away  and  left 
the  door  open  behind  him. 


142 


PART  II 
CORDT'S    SON 


143 


CHAPTER  XII 

TT7HEN  Cordt  had  finished  telling  the 
*  *  story  of  the  old  room,  he  sat  by 
the  window  and  looked  across  the  square, 
where  the  dusk  was  gathering  about  the 
newly-lighted  lamps. 

The  servant  entered  noiselessly  and  lit 
the  chandelier  and  went  out  noiselessly 
again.  And  the  light  filled  the  whole  of 
the  room  and  fell  upon  Cordt,  who  sat  and 
gazed  before  him,  and  upon  Finn,  who 
stood  by  him  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face. 

But  Finn  and  Cordt  were  not  where 
the  light  found  them. 

They  were  in  the  wonderful  mystery  of 
the  old  room.  They  heard  the  rippling 
of  the  fountain  outside  in  the  silent  square; 

MS 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


they  saw  the  blaze  of  the  red  flowers  on 
the  balcony.  The  slender  notes  of  the 
spinet  sounded  in  their  ears;  Fru  Adel- 
heid's  white  gown  rustled  over  the  floor. 

And,  when  Cordt  turned  his  face  to- 
wards his  son,  he  appeared  to  Finn  as  a 
very  big,  old  man;  and  Finn  seemed  to 
Cordt  the  little  child  that  once  lay  and 
laughed  in  the  cradle  and  fought  with  its 
little  fat  fists. 

Then  Cordt  stood  up  and  took  Finn's 
arm  and  they  walked  to  and  fro,  silent, 
overcome  with  what  they  had  seen  and 
afraid  lest  they  should  shatter  the  dream 
by  speaking. 

They  walked  for  some  time.  And, 
when,  at  length,  they  stopped  before  the 
window,  which  was  dewed  with  the  heat, 
so  that  they  could  see  nothing  through 
it,  Cordt  remembered  that  there  was  still 
something  which  Finn  ought  to  know  and 

which  he  could  not  ask  about. 

146 


CORDT'S   SON 


He  looked  at  Finn  and  remembered 
how  he  had  loved  his  mother. 

It  was  her  eyes,  but  more  restful- 
looking;  her  mouth,  but  paler  and  tired, 
as  though  it  had  tried  a  thousand  times 
to  say  something  which  it  never  could. 
He  had  her  slender  waist  and  he  was 
taller  than  Cordt,  but  carried  his  height 
like  a  burden.  Then  he  also  had  Fru 
Adelheid's  pale  cheeks  and  forehead, 
but  Cordt's  hair,  only  thicker  still  and 
blacker. 

"  Finn,"  said  Cordt  and  laid  his  hands 
on  his  shoulders. 

Finn  started  and  could  not  look  at  him. 
But  Cordt  took  him  under  the  chin  and 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  with  a  sad  smile 
into  his  frightened  eyes: 

"There  is  only  one  thing  left  to  tell  you, 
Finn.  ...  Fru  Adelheid  did  not  take  a 
lover." 

His  smile  widened  when  he  saw  his 
147 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


son's  sudden  and  great  joy;  and  he  drew 
him  to  him  and  kissed  him. 

But  then  he  suddenly  left  him  and  sat 
down  somewhere  in  the  room,  with  his 
back  to  him.  Finn  followed  him  and 
stood  by  him  for  a  while  and  thought 
kindly  and  fondly  of  him  and  could  find 
nothing  to  say. 

The  thoughts  rushed  through  Cordt's 
head. 

Now  that  he  had  lived  through  it  all 
anew,  the  scab  broke  which  the  silence 
of  many  years  had  placed  upon  the  wound 
in  his  will.  His  eyes  grew  hard  and 
angry,  he  wanted  to  speak  as  he  used  to 
speak  when  he  fought  his  hopeless  fight 
for  Fru  Adelheid. 

But  then  his  glance  fell  upon  Finn. 

He  sat  as  he  liked  best  to  sit,  with  bent 
head  and  his  hands  open  upon  his  knees. 

And  Cordt  grew  gentle  again  and  said, 
softly: 

148 


CORDT'S   SON 


"You  are  glad,  of  course.  For,  you 
see,  she  is  your  mother." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  came  back 
and  stood  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of 
the  chair  and  looked  at  Finn,  who  was 
lost  in  his  thoughts.  It  was  silent  in  the 
room  and  silent  outside,  for  it  was  Sun- 
day. They  could  hear  the  bells  ringing 
for  evening  service. 

"She  never  secured  the  red  flowers  in 
the  place  of  the  blue  which  she  valued  so 
little,"  said  Cordt,  "I  don't  know  ...  I 
often  thought  .  .  ." 

The  bells  rang  out. 

There  was  one  that  was  quite  close  and 
one  that  was  farther  away,  but  louder, 
nevertheless.  And  there  was  a  sound  of 
distant  bells  which  could  not  be  dis- 
tinguished from  one  another,  but  which 
sang  in  the  air. 

It  sounded  louder  than  it  was,  because 
they  were  thinking  of  it;  and  the  ringing 
149 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


grew  and  filled  the  room  with  its  deafen- 
ing clamor. 

Then  there  came  a  rumbling  in  the 
gateway.  The  carriage  drove  out  in  the 
soft  snow,  where  they  could  not  hear  it. 

"That's  Fru  Adelheid  going  to  church," 
said  Cordt. 

He  sat  down  by  his  son  and  began  to 
talk  in  a  low  voice  and  without  looking 
at  him. 

The  bells  rang  and  then  suddenly 
stopped  and  increased  the  silence  a 
hundredfold. 

"There  was  a  night  at  Landeck  when 
the  bells  caught  her,  a  night  following 
upon  a  day  of  sunshine  and  merriment 
and  many  people.  She  was  the  gayest  of 
us  all  and,  in  the  evening,  all  at  once,  she 
became  silent  and  tired,  as  so  often  hap- 
pened, without  any  cause  that  I  knew  of. 
.  .  .  You  were  with  us.  You  were  ten 
years  old  then;  you  lay  and  slept.  We 


CORDT'S   SON 


had  been  standing  together  by  your  bed 
and  looking  at  you  and  she  began  to  cry 
and  I  could  do  nothing  but  hold  her  hand 
in  mine  and  stop  speaking." 

Finn  listened,  as  he  had  just  listened 
to  the  bells,  without  making  out  what  the 
words  had  to  tell  him.  He  only  knew 
that  his  mother  was  without  blame  and 
that  his  father  had  been  able  to  tell  it  him 
all  on  that  day  and  to  leave  it  to  him  to 
pronounce  judgment  between  himself  and 
her.  His  joy  at  this  sang  within  him  and 
made  all  the.  rest  easy  and  light  and  in- 
different. 

And  Cordt  continued: 

"Then  I  went  out  on  the  verandah  with 
my  cigar  and  she  stood  in  the  doorway 
and  listened  to  the  bell  of  a  little  chapel 
up  in  the  mountains,  where  we  had  been 
during  the  day.  We  had  heard  the  story 
when  we  were  there.  Once,  in  the  old 
days,  a  pious  man  had  built  the  chapel  in 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


expiation  of  a  sin  and,  since  then,  the  bell 
had  rung  two  hours  after  midnight  every 
day.  .  .  .  She  asked  whether  it  would  go 
on  ringing  till  the  end  of  the  world  and 
we  came  to  talk  of  all  the  bells  that  ring 
over  the  earth,  by  day  and  by  night,  sun 
up  and  sun  down,  and  comfort  weary  mor- 
tals. .  .  .  Sometimes  she  was  silent.  But 
the  bell  rang  up  there  constantly.  And 
she  constantly  began  to  talk  again  and 
constantly  about  the  same  thing.  About 
the  bells  that  sounded  so  eternally  and 
so  identically  over  the  whole  world  .  .  . 
about  those  who  heard  them  for  the  first 
time,  one  day  when  they  were  running 
like  wild  heathens  in  the  endless  wood 
.  .  .  about  those  whose  will  suddenly 
broke  in  the  midst  of  the  modern  crowd, 
so  that  they  fell  on  their  knees  and 
crept  away  where  the  bells  summoned 
them." 

Finn    looked    up.     The    words    now 

152 


CORDT'S   SON 


caught  his  mind  and  he  woke  from  his 
dreams. 

"  I  see  her  before  me  still,  as  she  stood 
on  the  night  when  she  carried  her  soul  to 
God.  Her  strange  eyes  lifted  to  the  stars 
.  .  .  her  white  face  .  .  .  her  hands  .  .  . 
and  her  words,  which  came  so  quickly,  as 
though  her  life  depended  upon  their  com- 
ing, and  so  heavily,  as  though  every  one 
of  them  caused  her  pain.  She  never  gave 
it  a  thought  that  I  was  there:  she  spoke 
as  though  she  were  doing  public  penance 
in  the  church-porch.  .  .  .  And  then  she 
declared  that  it  was  over.  ...  It  had 
become  empty  around  her  and  cold  and 
dark  to  anguish  and  despair,  there  where 
her  glad  eyes  had  beamed  upon  the  lights 
and  the  crowd  of  the  feast.  Despair  had 
come  long  since  and  slowly  and  she  had 
closed  her  eyes  to  it  and  denied  it.  It 
had  grown  and  come  nearer  to  her  and 
she  had  run  away  from  it,  as  though  she 
153 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


were  running  for  her  life.  Now  it  was 
there  and  reached  from  earth  to  heaven, 
in  her,  around  her,  far  and  wide.  And, 
if  the  bells  could  not  conquer  it,  then  she 
must  die." 

Cordt  spoke  so  softly  that  Finn  could 
hardly  catch  his  words. 

"Then  the  bell  up  there  ceased.  Soon 
after,  the  day  dawned  and  the  sun  shone 
on  her  white,  moist  cheeks.  She  was  still 
now  and  silent,  but  her  thoughts  were  the 
same.  When  things  began  to  stir  around 
us,  in  the  town  and  at  the  hotel,  she  went 
out,  I  did  not  know  where,  but  I  daresay 
she  was  at  the  chapel.  Towards  evening, 
she  returned  and,  at  midnight,  we  sat  on 
the  verandah  again  and  listened  to  the 
church-bell.  ...  A  week  passed  thus.  I 
often  feared  for  her  reason.  She  always 
talked  of  the  same  thing  and  it  was  al- 
most worse  when  she  was  silent.  I  sent 
old  Hans  home  with  you  and,  the  next 
154 


CORDT'S   SON 


day,  we  left.  But  it  was  long  before  we 
reached  home.  She  wanted  to  travel  by 
the  same  road  which  we  had  taken  on 
the  journey  out.  She  said  she  wanted 
to  pray  in  every  church  which  she  had 
passed  on  her  hunt  for  happiness  through 
the  world." 

Finn  half  raised  himself  in  his  chair: 

"And  did  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  did  as  she  wished.  It  became  a 
pilgrimage  to  every  region  where  life  lies 
nakedest  in  its  pleasure.  Restlessly  we 
travelled  from  place  to  place.  She  omit- 
ted none,  afraid  lest  there  should  remain 
a  single  sin  which  she  had  not  prayed 
away,  a  single  memory  which  the  bells 
had  not  rung  into  the  grave." 

"And  then  did  you  come  home?" 

Cordt  looked  at  his  son  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten that  he  was  in  the  room.  He  sud- 
denly awoke  to  the  consciousness  of  what 
lay  between  those  days  and  these;  and  his 
155 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


face  became  so  gloomy  and  his  eyes  so 
serious  that  Finn  was  frightened. 

"  Then  we  came  home.     And  then  ..." 

He  rose  quickly  and  stood  with  his  arms 
crossed  on  his  breast  and  looked  at  Finn: 

"Then  we  came  home.  And  the  years 
passed  and  Fru  Adelheid  recovered  her 
peace  of  mind.  She  found  herself  again 
and  became  the  same  as  in  the  old  days. 
Her  thoughts  waver  restlessly,  her  desires 
yearn  insatiably.  Her  carriage  now  rat- 
tles through  the  streets  as  before  .  .  .  only 
it  stops  at  the  church  instead  of  the 
theatre." 

Finn  wanted  to  speak,  but  could  not, 
because  Cordt  stood  in  front  of  him  and 
looked  at  him  fixedly  and  nodded  to  him, 
once,  as  if  to  say  that  he  knew  what  it 
was  and  that  it  was  no  use. 

"She  goes  to  Heaven's  table,"  said 
Cordt,  "and  Heaven  comes  to  her  par- 
ties." 

156 


CORDT'S   SON 


Finn  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

He  was  surprised  and  ashamed  that  he 
was  not  grieved  with  his  father  for  say- 
ing that,  nor  with  his  mother,  if  it  were 
true.  He  knew  that  he  ought  to  rouse 
himself  to  protest  or  sympathy,  but  could 
not,  because  he  understood  it  all  'so 
well. 

But  Cordt  crossed  the  room  with  a  firm 
stride: 

"Heaven  is  not  what  Fru  Adelheid 
thinks,  nor  where  she  seeks  it,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  not  understand  me  un- 
til you  have  lived  longer  in  the  world; 
but  look  here,  Finn  .  .  .  what  I  have  seen 
of  God  in  my  life  I  have  seen  most  in 
those  who  denied  Him.  In  their  sense  of 
responsibility,  in  their  humanity  ...  in 
their  pride  I  have  seen  God's  splendor. 
The  others,  those  who  confess  His  name 
and  fill  His  house  .  .  .  they  masked  Him 
from  me  so  closely,  when  they  ought  to 
157 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


glorify  Him,  made  Him  so  small,  when 
they  praised  His  might  ..." 

He  talked  about  this  for  a  time.  Finn 
sat  dumb  and  helpless  in  his  chair  and 
wished  his  father  would  cease.  He  felt 
like  one  who  has  inadvertently  witnessed 
something  he  ought  not  to  see,  or  like  one 
who  is  receiving  a  confidence  under  a  false 
pretence. 

And  deep  down  within  him  lay  a  little 
ironical  astonishment  at  the  fire  and  au- 
thority with  which  his  father  was  talking. 

But,  at  that  moment,  Cordt  sat  down 
in  front  of  him  with  both  his  hands  in  his 
own  and  sad  and  gentle  eyes  and  words  as 
soft  and  humble  as  though  he  were  a  sinner 
begging  for  peace: 

"  I  don't  know,  Finn.  I  cannot  really  tell 
you  anything  about  it.  I  can  never  talk 
with  you  about  these  things.  A  father  is 
a  poor  creature,  Finn,  and  I  am  a  poor 
father.  I  cannot  tell  you  that  the  forest 
158 


CORDT'S   SON 


is  green  and  that  the  birds  sing  and  that 
there  is  nothing  behind  the  blue  sky.  I 
dare  not,  Finn.  I  do  not  think  I  have 
the  right  to.  I  cannot  go  to  church  with 
you,  either  ...  nor  even  be  glad  when 
you  go  with  your  mother." 

He  pressed  Finn's  hands  nervously. 
They  lay  dead  in  his  and  Finn  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  his  eyes. 

"But  I  must  talk  to  you  a  little  .  .  . 
just  this  once  .  .  .  to-day,  when  I  have  con- 
fessed to  you  and  made  up  your  parents' 
accounts.  If  you  will  try  to  understand 
me  ...  and  to  forgive  me  ...  to  forgive 
us,  because  we  are  not  so  rich  as  our  child 
could  expect  .  .  .  since  we  have  a  child. 
.  .  .  You  love  the  bells,  Finn.  When 
they  ring,  you  fall  a-dreaming;  they  ring 
you  far  away  from  where  you  are.  You 
were  like  that  ever  since  you  were  a  little 
boy.  And  I  can  well  understand  it.  I  love 
them,  too.  I  am  glad  because  they  are 
159 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


there.  But  .  .  .  Finn  .  .  .  Finn,  there  are 
so  many  bells  in  the  world  besides  those 
which  summon  us  to  church.  Every  man 
has  his  own,  which  are  his  and  his  only 
.  .  .  which  he  alone  can  hear,  which  call 
no  one  but  him.  There  are  men,  opulent, 
charming  men,  for  whom  the  bells  ring 
wherever  they  set  foot.  They  lead  more 
powerful  lives  than  we  and  prouder  lives. 
They  suffer  us  ...  those  of  us  who  love 
them.  But  there  is  not  in  the  world  a 
man  so  small  but  that  the  bells  call  him. 
One  has  them  in  his  work,  Finn.  And 
one  in  his  child  .  .  .  and  one  in  his  love. 
For  one  they  hang  in  a  neat  little  room 
where  his  mother  lives  and  where  he 
can  only  come  for  an  hour,  perhaps  .  .  . 
on  a  Sunday.  ...  It  is  not  the  same  for 
the  one  as  for  the  other,  Finn,  but  the 
bells  are  there  always.  They  call  their 
man  back  when  he  has  strayed  from  the 
way  he  should  go,  or,  if  that  is  too  late, 


CORDT'S   SON 


they  ring  for  his  remorse.  They  ring  to 
the  banquet  and  they  ring  their  music 
when  he  is  tired  and  sad.  .  .  .  But  the 
church-bells  .  .  .  they  ring  for  the  man 
whose  ears  life  has  deafened  .  .  .  and  life 
makes  such  a  terrible  noise.  They  ring 
on  Sundays  to  remind  us  of  that  which  we 
have  forgotten  throughout  the  week.  .  .  . 
And  it  is  well  that  they  are  there.  .  .  .  But 
.  .  .  Finn  ...  it  is  so  tragic  when  the 
church-bells  drive  and  tumble  people  to- 
gether who  once  had  each  his  own  sacred 
church.  It  is  just  as  when  a  home  breaks 
up  and  the  old  find  a  refuge  in  the  work- 
house. The  sun  shines  through  the  win- 
dows and  it  is  warm  indoors  and  there  are 
flowers  in  the  casement.  But  there  was 
once  something  that  was  better.  .  .  .  For 
your  mother  and  me,  Finn  ...  for  us  the 
bells  used  to  ring  in  the  old  room." 

He  was  silent  and  no  longer  looked  at 
Finn.     And  Finn  was  at  ease  again  and 

161 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


at  last  found  words  for  what  he  had  long 
wanted  to  say: 

"  May  I  use  the  old  room,  father  ?  May 
I  set  it  up  again  ...  all  as  it  was  .  .  .  and 
live  there  with  my  books  ?  .  .  . " 

Cordt  released  his  son's  hands  and  his 
face  wore  a  look  that  made  Finn  regret  his 
request.  They  both  rose  to  their  feet. 
And,  at  that  moment,  Cordt's  face  lit  up 
with  a  smile: 

"That  you  may,"  he  said.  "You  dear 
child,  who  never  asked  for  anything. 
Let  this,  then,  be  my  present  to  you  to- 
day." 

This  happened  on  the  day  when  Cordt's 
son  completed  his  twenty-first  year. 


162 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FINN  stood  in  the  old  room  with  the 
yellow  document  in  his  hand: 

"God  brought  me  thus  far,  that  I  was 
able  to  erect  this  fair  house,  which  shall 
stand  till  distant  times,  a  witness  to  my 
might  and  that  of  my  race.  Here  shall 
be  upright  living  and  generous  dealing; 
the  house  shall  be  faithfully  guarded 
from  father  to  son;  good  men  and  women 
shall  sit  in  the  hall  and  dance  to  the  sound 
of  flutes  and  violins. 

"I  have  placed  this  room  in  the  most 
secret  part  of  the  house  and  no  one  knows 
of  it  but  the  architect  who  built  it  and 
my  oldest  servant.  But  I  have  sealed  the 
architect's  tongue  with  a  solemn  oath  and 

a  heavy  fee;  and  my  servant  is  true  to  me. 
163 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"I  have  decorated  the  room  with  gilt 
and  figured  leather  hangings  and  costly 
carpets  from  the  East.  I  have  had  two 
great  armchairs  made  in  Milan,  whose 
woodwork  is  carved  into  birds  and  ani- 
mals which  grin  strangely  in  the  dark,  but 
cease  to  do  so  when  the  lights  are  lit. 

"Then  I  gave  my  servant  a  key  of  the 
room  and  told  him  to  care  for  it  faithfully. 
Every  evening,  when  it  grows  dusk,  he  is 
to  light  the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece; 
and  he  is  to  do  this  even  if  he  know  that 
his  master  is  travelling  in  distant  lands. 
Every  morning,  he  is  to  adjust  the  room 
with  his  own  hands.  None  but  himself 
is  ever  to  cross  the  threshold. 

"For  this  room  shall  be  for  me  and  my 
wife  and  for  none  other  in  the  world. 
Therefore  I  placed  it  in  the  most  secluded 
part  of  the  house,  far  from  the  counting- 
house,  where  we  work,  from  the  passages, 
along  which  our  servants  go,  and  from 


CORDT'S   SON 


the  drawing-room,  where  we  receive  our 
guests,  ay,  even  from  our  marriage-bed, 
where  she  sleeps  by  my  side. 

"  It  shall  be  the  temple  of  our  marriage, 
hallowed  by  our  love,  which  is  greater  than 
anything  that  we  know.  Here  we  will 
pray  to  Him  Who  gave  us  to  each  other. 
Here  we  will  talk  gladly  and  earnestly, 
every  evening  when  our  hearts  impel  us 
to.  And,  when  we  come  to  die,  our  son 
shall  bring  his  wife  here  and  they  shall 
do  as  we  did. 

"This  evening,  which  is  the  first  in  my 
new  house,  I  brought  my  wife  in  here  and 
told  her  my  wish.  She  listened  to  my 
words  in  love  and  gladness  and  I  have 
written  down  in  this  document  how  it  all 
happened  and  we  have  set  our  names  to 
it  in  witness  for  those  who  come  after  us." 

Finn  read  their  names  and  the  names 
of  those  who  had  taken  possession  of  the 

165 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


room  after  the  builder  and  his  wife.  Last 
of  all  stood  Cordt's  name  and  Fru  Adel- 
heid's,  which  were  struck  out  again. 

Then  he  put  the  document  back  in  its 
place  and  locked  it  up  and  looked  round 
the  room. 

The  old  room  stood  again  as  it  used  to 
stand,  built  high  over  the  square,  long 
and  deep  and  silent,  like  a  spot  where 
there  is  no  life. 

The  balcony  was  white  with  snow  and 
the  sparrows  hopped  in  the  snow.  In- 
side, behind  the  colored  panes,  stood 
many  red  flowers  and  longed  for  the  sun. 
The  dust  had  been  removed  from  the 
figured-leather  hangings,  which  shone 
with  a  new  brightness.  The  oriental 
carpet  spread  over  the  floor  like  a  lord 
returning  from  exile  and  once  more  taking 
possession  of  his  estates. 

And  all  the  old  glories  had  found  their 
places  again  and  stood  as  lawfully  and 

1 66 


CORDT'S   SON 


restfully  as  though  it  had  never  been  other- 
wise. The  spinet  was  there  and  the  jar 
with  the  man  writhing  through  thorns 
and  the  celestial  globe  whose  stars  shone 
and  ran:  all  the  furniture  which  the 
room's  different  owners  had  set  there  in 
the  course  of  time,  each  after  his  own 
taste  and  heart. 

Before  the  fireplace  stood  the  two  great, 
strange  armchairs. 

Finn  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  cathedral 
where  every  flag  was  a  tombstone  over 
a  famous  man.  His  senses  drank  the 
odor  of  the  bygone  times,  his  fancy  peo- 
pled the  room  with  the  men  and  women 
who  had  sat  there  and  exchanged  strong 
and  gentle  words,  while  the  house  lay 
sleeping  around  them. 

With  it  all,  he  became  lost  in  thought 
of  those  who  had  sat  there  last  and  after 
whom  no  others  were  to  come,  those 
two  who  had  given  him  the  life  which  he 

knew  not  what  to  do  with. 

167 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


He  saw  them  before  him  in  the  love 
and  struggle  of  their  youth.  He  heard 
their  voices  in  the  room,  he  saw  Fru 
Adelheid's  red  mouth  and  Cordt's  steady 
eyes.  He  saw  Cordt  bring  his  wife  into 
the  room,  which  was  the  soul  of  the  house 
and  its  tradition  and'  its  secret  chamber, 
and  show  her  the  strange  things  which 
his  ancestors  had  put  there. 

He  saw  him  on  the  day  when  he  stood 
alone  by  the  fireplace  ...  in  the  empty 
room  .  .  .  and  struck  out  his  own  name 
and  Fru  Adelheid's  from  the  document 
and  went  away  and  left  the  door  open  be- 
hind him.  .  .  . 

He  saw  all  this  as  it  had  happened.  But 
they  were  not  his  father  and  mother.  They 
were  two  attractive  people  of  whom  he  had 
read  in  a  book  and  grown  fond,  as  a  man 
loves  art,  palely  and  with  no  self-seeking 
in  his  desire. 

Finn  drew  one  of  the  big  chairs  over 

1 68 


CORDT'S   SON 


to  the  window  and  sat  down  and  sat  there 
for  long. 

He  was  sitting  there  when  Fru  Adel- 
heid  came. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  in  her  white 
gown,  with  her  white  hair,  and  nodded 
to  him.  Then  she  turned  her  face  round 
to  the  room  and  looked  at  it. 

And  then  that  happened  which  was 
only  the  shadow  of  a  dream  that  vanished 
then  and  there:  everything  came  to  life 
in  the  room. 

The  spinet  sang,  the  queer  faces  on  the 
old  chairs  raised  themselves  on  their  long 
necks;  there  was  a  whispering  and  a 
muttering  in  every  corner 

Fru  Adelheid  shrank  back  against  the 
door.  She  did  not  see  Finn,  did  not  re- 
member that  he  was  there. 

But  Finn  saw  her. 

He  rose  from  his   chair  and  his  eyes 

beamed: 

169 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


"You  light  up  the  room,  mother,"  he 
said,  "and  the  room  lights  up  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  and, 
with  her  hand  in  his,  Fru  Adelheid  went 
through  the  old  room,  which  had  been 
too  narrow  for  her  youthful  desires. 

The  fairy-tale  was  over  and  the  dread. 
But  the  glow  still  lay  over  her  figure  and 
made  her  look  wonderfully  pretty.  Her 
cheeks  were  as  pink  as  a  girl's;  her  step 
was  light,  her  eyes  moist  and  shy. 
She  laughed  softly  and  gladly,  while  she 
looked  at  the  old  things  and  talked  about 
them  and  touched  them. 

She  told  the  story  of  the  woman  who 
used  to  sing  when  she  was  sad  and  who 
had  brought  the  old  spinet  there;  and 
her  hands  shook  as  she  struck  a  chord 
and  the  slender,  beautiful  notes  sounded 
through  the  room.  Of  the  spinning- 
wheel,  which  had  whirred  merrily  every 

evening  for  many  a  good  year  and  which 

170 


CORDT'S   SON 


stood  as  it  was,  with  thread  upon  the 
spindle.  Of  the  celestial  globe,  which  had 
been  the  toy  of  the  man  whose  intellect 
was  obscured.  Of  the  doll  with  the 
vacant  face,  which  stood  there  in  memory 
of  the  lady  who  dreaded  the  deep  silence 
of  the  room  and  never  entered  it  but  once; 
but  her  son,  who  loved  her,  had  hidden 
the  doll  in  the  curtain.  Of  Fru  Lykke, 
whose  portrait  had  hung  where  the  light 
stain  was,  but  hung  there  no  longer,  be- 
cause her  marriage  had  been  dissolved. 

Of  the  jar  with  the  man  writhing 
through  thorns,  which  she  herself  had 
brought  as  her  gift,  she  said  nothing.  She 
passed  her  hand  over  its  bright  surface 
and  was  silent. 

Finn's  eyes  clung  to  her. 

Never  had  he  seen  his  beautiful  mother 
so  beautiful.  He  did  not  know  that  look, 
or  that  smile  on  her  mouth,  or  that  clear 

ring  in  her  voice. 

171 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


At  times,  he  added  something  to  what 
she  was  telling  and  spoke  with  such  pro- 
found intelligence  that  she  was  quite  sur- 
prised and  frightened.  Now  he  guessed 
her  words  before  she  uttered  them.  Then 
he  knew  something  which  she  had  never 
suspected. 

Secretly,  her  fear  increased  as  to  what 
Cordt  could  have  told  him. 

But  Finn  was  lost  in  his  delight. 

And,  fascinated  by  her  beauty  and  the 
strange  things  he  had  seen  and  heard  and 
the  deep  silence  of  the  room,  he  forgot  that 
the  seal  of  the  old  room  was  broken  and 
wished  to  play  the  game  as  vividly  as 
possible. 

He  drew  the  second  of  the  two  big 
chairs  across  to  the  window  and  made  her 
sit  down  and  sat  himself  beside  her: 

"Now  you  are  not  my  mother,"  he 
said.  "You  are  my  young  bride.  I  have 
brought  you  into  the  sanctuary  to-day 
172 


CORDT'S    SON 


and  now  I  will  initiate  you  into  the 
mysteries." 

Fru  Adelheid  turned  very  pale  and  Finn 
took  her  hand  penitently: 

"Have  I  hurt  you,  mother?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  forced  herself 
to  smile. 

Then  he  walked  into  the  room  again 
and  rejoiced  at  all  this  and  talked  about 
it.  But  she  remained  sitting  with  knitted 
brow. 

She  was  heavy  at  heart,  because  it 
seemed  to  her,  all  at  once,  that  she  was 
not  his  mother,  as  they  sat  talking  here  in 
the  secret  chamber  of  the  house.  The 
old  days  came  in  their  great  might;  and 
their  strong  memories  and  impressive 
words  drowned  the  bells  which  had  rung 
her  into  another  world. 

It  was  the  echo  here,  in  the  old  room, 
of  Cordt's  words  and  of  his  love  ...  of 
the  strong  faith  and  great  happiness  of 
173 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


the  race  which  had  sprouted  in  the  good 
mould  of  tradition  and  produced  flower 
after  flower  in  the  times  that  passed. 

Fru  Adelheid  thought — for  a  moment 
—that  it  would  have  been  well  had  things 
happened  as  Cordt  wished. 

But,  at  the  same  instant,  she  was  seized 
by  a  thought  that  suddenly  made  her  re- 
bellious and  young,  as  when  she  was  here 
last,  many  years  ago. 

She  thrust  her  chair  back  hard  and 
looked  with  sparkling  eyes  round  the 
room  where  everything  and  every  memory 
was  hostile  to  her. 

She  looked  at  Finn,  who  was  standing 
by  the  celestial  globe  and  trying  to  set  it 
going,  but  could  not,  because  the  spring 
was  rusty  and  refused  to  work. 

She  wondered,  when  the  time  came  for 
Finn  to  take  a  wife  .  .  .  would  he  try  to  re- 
vive the  tradition  and  bring  her  here  and 
sit  down  with  her  in  the  old  chairs  ? 


CORDT'S   SON 


Then  Finn's  son  and  his  son  after  him 
would  read  her  name,  which  was  written 
on  the  yellow  document  and  struck  out 
again.  She  would  be  like  one  of  those 
who  were  branded  in  that  family.  .  .  . 
Legends  would  grow  about  her  love  of 
going  out  and  her  hunt  after  happiness 
which  did  not  exist.  .  .  . 

"Come  and  help  me,  mother,"  said 
Finn. 

She  went  over  and  pressed  hard  on  the 
spring  and  the  clockwork  hummed. 

"  See  how  you  let  loose  the  magic,"  he 
said. 

He  went  on  talking,  delighted  with  the 
stars,  which  lit  up  and  ran. 

"Sit  down  here  by  me,  Finn." 

She  waited  till  he  came  and  a  little 
longer,  as  though  she  could  not  find  the 
words  she  wanted,  and  did  not  look  at 
him  while  she  spoke: 

"  Finn"  she  said  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
175 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


shoulder  and  drew  it  away  again  immedi- 
ately. "  Finn  .  .  .  once  .  .  .  ever  so  many 
years  ago,  I  was  alone,  one  evening,  in 
the  old  room.  I  had  often  been  here  be- 
fore, you  know  .  .  .  with  father.  And  I 
was  under  the  power  of  the  old  room  and 
never  happy.  I  was  young,  Finn,  and 
it  went  so  terribly  hard  with  my  longing 
and  my  gladness.  I  could  not  under- 
stand that  and  could  not  mitigate  it  or 
get  over  it.  For  father  belonged  to  the 
room  and  it  was  his  and  all  the  queer 
things  in  it  and  they  were  all  against  me. 
Every  time  I  came  to  the  door,  my  heart 
stopped  beating.  .  .  .  And  once  I  was  in- 
side ...  it  was  ...  it  was  as  if  my  own 
words  were  taken  from  my  tongue  and 
others  put  in  their  place  for  me  to  speak 
.  .  .  beautiful  words  and  good  words, 
Finn,  but  not  mine.  But  then,  when  I 
took  courage  and  said  what  I  wanted  to 

say,  it  sounded  as  if  I  was  defying  the  old 

176 


CORDT'S   SON 


room  and  father  and  God  himself.  And 
then  .  .  ." 

Fru  Adelheid  felt  that  she  was  on  the 
point  of  betraying  something  great  and 
fine  that  had  been  laid  in  her  hands. 
She  looked  round  as  if  she  were  afraid 
that  there  was  some  one  in  the  room  or 
that  the  room  itself  would  rise  up  against 
her  in  its  venerable  might. 

But  there  was  no  one  and  it  was  silent. 

Then  she  turned  her  face  to  Finn  and 
looked  at  him  and  said,  gaily: 

"But  that  evening,  Finn,  I  broke  the 
spell  of  the  old  room.  I  tore  the  veil  from 
the  Holy  of  Holies  and  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  behind  it.  For  the  first  time,  I 
breathed  freely  in  my  own  home." 

Fru  Adelheid  did  not  tell  how,  at  the 
same  moment,  she  had  been  overcome  by 
terror  and  fled  from  the  room.  But  she  did 
not  gain  what  she  thought  by  her  lie.  For 
Finn  looked  at  her  sorrowfully  and  said: 
177 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"How  could  you  do  that,  mother? 
How  could  you  find  it  in  your  heart  ?" 

"Are  you  also  under  the  spell?"  she 
asked. 

There  was  in  her  tone  a  scorn  which 
was  stronger  than  she  intended  and  which 
frightened  herself.  But  Finn  simply  paid 
no  attention  to  it: 

"The  old  room  no  longer  exists,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  nothing  more  than  an  image, 
a  monument  .  .  .  my  fancy,  which  father 
humored  me  in." 

She  turned*  her  face  away  and  listened. 

"But  had  I  lived  in  the  days  of  the  old 
room,"  he  said,  "then  it  would  certainly 
have  captured  me  and  held  me  captive." 

"Yes  .  .  .  you  have  been  talking  to 
father,"  she  said,  softly. 

"Yes." 

Then  he  lay  down  before  her,  with  his 
cheek  on  her  hand,  as  he  so  often  did: 

"Yes,"  he  repeated.   "And  .  .  .  mother 

178 


CORDT'S   SON 


...  I  love  you.  You  are  so  pretty.  But 
we  will  not  talk  about  the  old  room  .  .  . 
ever.  For  I  think  it  is  the  most  wonder- 
ful ...  and  the  most  beautiful  and  the 
strongest  thing  I  know  of.  ...  But  it 
hurts  me  that  I  am  not  wholly  your  son 
...  or  father's  either,  that  I  might  de- 
vote myself  to  one  of  you  in  sharing 
your  strongest  feelings.  And  I  cannot 
talk  to  father  about  it  ...  neither  can  we 
two,  can  we  ? " 

Fru  Adelheid  did  not  answer  him,  but 
stroked  his  hair  with  her  hand.  Neither 
of  them  spoke  and  it  was  quite  silent  in 
the  room. 

In  the  silence  she  became  herself  again. 
The  many  moulded  years  came  to  their 
own  again  and  the  bells  rang  monoto- 
nously and  ever  more  strongly  from  out  of 
the  noise  of  the  world,  which  had  drowned 
them. 

She  marvelled  at  the  excitement  into 
i79 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


which  the  old  room  had  thrown  her. 
Quenched  was  the  love  which  had  made 
her  its  mistress  and  quenched  the  red 
desire  which  made  it  too  narrow.  She 
thought  of  Cordt,  who  had  fought,  she 
considered,  for  what  was  not  worth  fight- 
ing for.  Sorrowfully  she  looked  at  her 
tall,  silent  boy,  whose  weary  thoughts  kept 
pace  so  well  with  her  own. 

She  crossed  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  the 
light  faded  in  her  eyes.  The  glow  of  the 
old  room  withdrew  from  her  face,  her 
words  became  restful  as  her  thoughts. 

Finn  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  see  this. 
For  him,  too,  the  fairy-tale  was  over.  He 
was  sitting  in  his  chair  again  with  bent 
head  and  his  hands  open  on  his  knees. 

And,  without  their  doing  anything  or 
thinking  of  it,  they  came  in  their  usual 
way  to  talk  together.  It  was  not  any 
interchange  of  thoughts  and  still  less  a 

contest   of  opinions.     They   said   nearly 

1 80 


CORDT'S   SON 


the  same  thing  and,  wherever  the  thoughts 
of  the  one  roamed,  he  found  the  other's. 
Often  their  words  were  solemn,  but  never 
powerful.  Often  the  one  was  silent  and 
agreed  with  the  other.  Many  times  they  sat 
long  without  saying  anything  and  thought 
they  had  told  each  other  everything. 

"Look,"  said  Finn,  pointing  out  of  the 
window.     "How  hideous!" 

A    hearse    came    trotting    across    the 
square. 

He  moved  in  his  chair  and  said: 
"A  hearse  should  always  drive  at  a 
foot's  pace,  solemnly  and  ceremoniously 
.  .  .  always  ...  as  though  they  were  only 
driving  the  horses  to  water.  And  soldiers 
should  always  hold  themselves  stiff  and 
starched,  keeping  step  and  time,  even 
when  they  are  taking  their  shoes  to  the 
cobbler's.  Then  it  would  all  be  easier." 
He  was  silent  for  a  while.  Then  he 
slowly  turned  his  face  to  her: 

181 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"I  was  talking  about  it  to  father  the 
other  day,"  he  said.  "I  happened  to  say 
something  of  the  kind." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  came  about.  But 
he  laughed  and  said  I  ought  to  write  an 
article  about  it  or  form  a  society  for  pre- 
serving the  correct  pace  of  hearses." 

Fru  Adelheid  smiled  and  laid  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  looked  at  them. 

''Then  he  suddenly  became  serious  and 
came  up  to  me  and  laid  his  hands  on  my 
shoulders:  'Hearses  ought  to  drive  fast,' 
he  said,  'gallop  ...  at  a  rousing  pace. 
Away  with  the  dead,  Finn!  Let  life  grow 
green  and  blossom  I" 

"  Father  is  so  masterful,"  said  Fru 
Adelheid. 

Finn  nodded. 

Then  they  began  to  talk  about  Cordt. 
They  often  did  so.  And  they  were  al- 
ways eager  to  find  good  words  to  praise 
182 


CORDT'S   SON 


him  in.  But  under  the  words  there  lay 
the  consciousness,  like  a  secret  under- 
standing between  them,  that  he  was  made 
of  a  coarser  clay  than  they. 

They  never  said  this;  but  they  felt  a  sort 
of  patronizing  pity  for  him,  such  as  one 
feels  for  a  person  who  runs  and  runs,  when 
it  is  good  to  sit  still. 

But,  when  they  talked  together,  Fru 
Adelheid  knew  that  deep  in  Finn's  soul 
there  lay  a  secret  yearning  towards  just 
that  masterful  side  in  his  father  which 
frightened  him. 

It  was  so  weak,  only  a  pale  reflection 
of  her  own  young  love,  a  distant  echo  of 
the  voice  which  had  stated  Cordt's  case 
in  her  own  heart  when  he  was  fighting 
to  win  her. 

But  it  was  enough  to  hurt  her.  She 
thought  she  only  had  her  son  for  a  time. 
She  traced  a  certain  disdain  in  the  inti- 
macy to  which  he  admitted  her.  She 
183 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


thought  there  was  something  in  him  which 
was  greater  than  what  he  gave  her  and 
which  was  Cordt's  or  would  become  so. 

And  she  realized  that  the  fight  for  Finn 
would  become  harder  than  that  which 
broke  the  seal  on  the  door  of  the  old  room. 

Finn  was  absorbed  in  what  had  filled 
his  mind,  the  whole  day,  with  light  and 
color.  He  was  thinking  now  of  his 
mother's  visit  to  the  room  on  the  evening 
when  she  had  broken  the  spell: 

"I  simply  cannot  understand  how  you 
could  have  the  heart,"  he  said. 

She  knew  at  once  what  he  meant,  but 
said  nothing. 

"There  ought  to  be  some  law,  like  that 
in  the  fairy-story,  where  he  who  lifted  the 
veil  had  to  die,"  he  said.  "And  there 
ought  to  be  veils  upon  veils  .  .  .  veils  upon 
veils.  .  .  .  Can  you  bear  to  look  at  the  sun, 
mother  ?  Women  ought  to  go  in  a  veil 
and  never  .  .  .  never  raise  it,  except  when 


CORDT'S   SON 


the  occasion  was  so  great  that  every- 
thing grew  great.  .  .  .  And  one  ought  not 
to  see  the  people  who  play.  .  .  ." 

Fru  Adelheid  half  raised  herself  in  her 
chair. 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  that,  on  that 
evening,  she  was  punished  for  her  pre- 
sumption with  the  greatest  terror  which 
she  had  ever  experienced  in  her  life. 
But  she  could  not.  Then  she  said,  quite 
quietly  and  with  her  eyes  looking  out  over 
the  square: 

"And  suppose  there  were  some  one  who 

could    not  .  .  .  suppose    the    veil    stifled 

» 
one.  .  .  . 

Finn  looked  out  into  space  like  her: 
"Veils  upon  veils.  .  .  .  Veils  over  the 
dead,"  he  said. 

Fru  Adelheid  sighed  and  said  nothing. 
"Then  one  could  live,"  said  Finn. 


185 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FROM  that  day  onward,  Finn  only  left 
the  old  room  when  obliged. 

The  spring  had  opened  the  fountain 
before  the  house  and  he  was  happy  at  its 
rippling,  which  never  began  and  never 
stopped.  The  red  flowers  were  put  out  on 
the  balcony:  when  the  wind  blew,  their 
petals  fluttered  right  over  into  the  basin 
of  the  fountain  and  rocked  upon  the  water. 
He  followed  their  dance  through  the  air 
and  wondered  if  they  would  reach  their 
goal. 

His  best  time  was  in  the  evening,  when 
the  square  shone  with  a  thousand  lights. 

He  loved  the  dying  day. 

He  knew  every  light  that  went  out, 
every  sound  as  it  stopped.  And  he  liked 

186 


CORDT'S   SON 


the  sound  best  when  it  stopped  and  the 
light  when  it  went  out.  He  thought  that 
the  people  who  moved  down  below,  dis- 
guised in  the  darkness,  were  of  another 
kind  or  better  than  those  whom  the  sun 
shone  upon.  He  had  no  more  to  do  with 
them  than  with  the  others;  but  he  liked 
them  better. 

Then,  when  night  came  and  the  rip- 
pling of  the  fountain  sang  louder  and 
louder  through  the  silence  and  cries 
sounded  from  down  below,  no  one  know- 
ing what  they  were,  and  solitary  steps 
were  heard,  that  approached  and  retreated 
again,  then  he  lit  the  candles  on  the  man- 
telpiece and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  old 
chairs,  there  where  the  owners  of  the 
house  and  their  wives  had  sat  when  the 
house  slept  and  they  had  something  to 
say  to  each  other. 

He  looked  round  the  room,  where  the 
things  sang  in  every  dark  corner,  and 
187 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


simply  could  not  conceive  that  he  had  not 
known  the  old  room  before. 

He  was  more  at  home  here  than  any- 
where else:  here,  where  he  was  outside 
the  world,  which  worried  him,  because  it 
demanded  that  of  him  which  he  had  not; 
here,  where  every  spot  and  every  object 
told  how  all  had  been  said  and  done 
and  accomplished  in  the  old  days,  so 
that  he  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  listen 
wonderingly  and  rejoice  at  its  marvellous 
beauty. 

Then  he  fell  a-dreaming  and  remained 
sitting  till  the  lights  went  out. 

"He  does  not  sleep  enough,"  said  Fru 
Adelheid,  anxiously. 

Cordt  crossed  the  floor  with  the  same 
thought  in  his  mind.  Then  he  stopped 
where  she  was  sitting  and  looked  at 
her: 

"I  wonder,  is  he  ever  awake,  Adel- 
heid ?"  he  said. 

188 


CORDT'S   SON 


By  day,  Finn  generally  sat  at  the  win- 
dow and  stared  out,  idly  and  silently, 
with  his  hands  open  on  his  knees. 

Often,  when  Cordt  was  crossing  the 
square,  he  thought  that  he  could  see 
Finn's  old  face  behind  the  window-panes. 
He  would  stop  and  nod  and  beckon  to 
him. 

But  Finn  never  saw  him.  For  he  saw 
nothing  positively. 

And  Cordt  went  on  ...  in  and  out  .  .  . 
constantly  longing  to  see  the  strong  air 
of  the  old  room  color  his  son's  cheeks 
and  rouse  his  will  .  .  .  constantly  trust- 
ing that,  sooner  or  later,  this  would  hap- 
pen. 

He  never  went  up  there  since  the  day 
when  he  and  his  old  servant  had  arranged 
the  room  as  it  used  to  be. 

And  Finn  was  glad  of  this.  He  was  so 
afraid  lest  that  should  happen  that  a  long 
time  passed  before  he  could  suppress  his 
189 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


terror  when  he  heard  any  one  coming. 
And,  even  when  he  had  recovered  his 
composure,  he  knew  that  it  would  happen 
sooner  or  later  and  that  the  day  of  its 
happening  would  be  a  gloomy  one. 

For  he  well  understood  the  eternal 
loving  question  in  Cordt's  eyes  and  it 
hurt  him  and  frightened  him.  He  dread- 
ed the  craving  in  his  affection,  which  was 
greater  than  a  father's.  It  was  like  that 
of  a  sovereign  for  the  heir  who  is  to  oc- 
cupy the  throne  after  him. 

And  Finn  could  not  take  the  reins  of 
empire  in  his  slack  hands  or  bear  the 
pressure  of  the  crown  upon  his  head, 
which  ached  at  the  mere  thought  of  it. 

But  Fru  Adelheid  often  came;  and  they 
two  were  comfortable  up  there,  in  the  old 
room. 

She  came  with  no  craving;  and,  if  she 
was  doubtful  and  restless,  as  she  often 

was,  since, Finn  had  moved  up  into  the 

190 


CORDT'S   SON 


old  room,  then  she  would  be  quite  silent 
when  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

Silent  like  Finn  .  .  .  and  like  the  big 
chairs  and  the  jar  with  the  man  writhing 
through  thorns  .  .  .  silent  like  the  spin- 
ning-wheel, which  had  whirred  merrily 
every  evening  for  many  a  good  year  and 
stood  as  it  was  with  thread  upon  its 
spindle. 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled  and  nodded 
when  she  spoke.  He  himself  talked  .  .  . 
for  long  at  a  time  and  then  stopped,  with- 
out its  making  any  difference,  and  listened 
to  the  rippling  of  the  fountain  and  the 
voices  in  the  old  room,  which  always 
talked  to  him  and  plainest  when  Fru 
Adelheid  was  with  him. 

He  told  her  that,  when  she  came,  the 
room  was  no  longer  his  own. 

For  then  he  felt  like  a  stranger,  a  man 
of  another  period,  who  should  suddenly 
find  himself  in  an  old  ruined  castle,  full 
191 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


of  marvellous  dangers  and  adventures, 
and  stand  face  to  face  with  the  last  of 
those  who  had  lived  the  castle's  rich, 
wonderful  life. 

Once  he  spoke  her  name  aloud  just 
as  she  was  entering  at  the  door.  It  was 
dark  in  the  room  and  his  voice  and  figure 
were  so  like  Cordt's  that  she  grew  pale 
and  frightened.  But  he  did  not  see  this 
and  she  forced  a  laugh  and  soon  forgot  it. 

And,  gradually,  the  wonderful  solem- 
nity of  the  old  room  retreated  into  the 
background,  when  they  were  both  there, 
for  they  spent  more  and  more  of  their 
time  there  and  at  last  simply  did  not 
think  they  were  together  except  there. 
But  Finn  was  always  able  to  summon 
it  up  when  he  wished. 

They  used  to  read  together. 

And  that  happened  in  this  way,  that 
one  of  them  found  a  book,  a  treasure 
of  silence  and  singing,  which  was  the 


CORDT'S   SON 


only  sort  that  they  felt  equal  to,  and 
read  it  and  gave  it  to  the  other,  who 
then  read  it  while  they  were  together. 

They  found  most  of  the  books  in  foreign 
languages  and  it  seemed  as  if  there  were 
no  end  of  them.  Also,  the  fact  that  the 
language  was  foreign  made  the  book 
dearer  to  them,  because  it  carried  them 
farther  afield. 

When  they  had  read  one  of  these  books, 
they  lived  in  it  for  a  time  ...  not  in  its 
action,  among  its  characters,  for  there 
was  no  action  and  no  characters,  but  in 
its  music.  They  tuned  their  thoughts 
and  words  in  its  key. 

Then  they  felt  as  if  they  had  passed 
through  some  experience  or  as  if  they 
were  travelling. 

"The   artist   lives,''   said   Finn.     "He 

makes  the  sky  blue  and  grey  for  himself 

...  for  himself  and  for  us  all.     He  wipes 

everything  out  with  his  hand  and  builds 

193 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


it  up  again  .  .  .  greater,  ever  greater. 
He  is  the  master.  He  is  God." 

One  day,  he  asked  Fru  Adelheid  to  sing. 

She  had  not  sung  for  many  years,  ex- 
cept in  church,  and  was  surprised  at  his 
request: 

"I  have  given  up  singing,  Finn." 

He  lay  down  before  her  and  looked  up 
smiling  into  her  face: 

"I  can  remember  so  well  when  you 
used  to  sing,"  he  said.  "You  often  sang 
to  me  when  I  was  a  boy.  But  one  oc- 
casion .  .  .  one  occasion  I  remember  in 
particular.  There  were  many  visitors  and 
I,  of  course,  had  long  been  in  bed,  but 
I  was  not  asleep.  For  old  Marie  had 
promised  to  take  me  down  to  the  dining- 
room  when  the  people  had  got  up  from 
dinner  and  you  were  to  sing.  She  told 
me  that,  when  there  was  company  and 
all  the  candles  were  lighted  and  you  were 

prettiest  and  brightest,  then  you  sang  a 

194 


CORDT'S   SON 


thousand  times  more  beautifully  than 
usual." 

She  took  her  eyes  from  his  face  and 
laid  her  head  back  in  her  chair. 

"I  kept  awake  till  she  came  and  it 
lasted  long.  But  then  I  heard  you  and 
also  saw  you  for  a  moment  through  the 
door." 

"And  was  it  so  nice?" 

"I  don't  remember,"  he  said.  "But  I 
remember  the  many  faces.  ...  I  should 
know  them  again  if  I  saw  them  now,  I 
think.  And  best  of  all  I  remember 
father's." 

Fru  Adelheid  rose: 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed  with  content,  went  to  the 
spinet  and  opened  it.  Then  he  took  up 
one  of  the  pieces  of  music: 

"Look  what  I  have  found,"  he  said. 
"This  was  sung  by  the  one  who  put  the 
spinet  here.  Look,  here  is  her  name:  she 
195 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


herself  wrote  both  the  words  and  the 
music.  .  .  .  See  how  pale  the  writing  is 
.  .  .  and  how  distinct." 

Fru  Adelheid  stood  with  the  old,  yel- 
low sheet  in  her  hand.  She  hummed  the 
tune  and  struck  the  keys. 

Then  she  sat  down  to  the  spinet  and 
sang: 

Day  is  passing,  dearest  maiden: 
Ere  thou  knowest,  comes  the  night; 
Warning  winds,  with  fragrance  laden, 
Bring  cool  air  and  colder  light. 
We  must  part:   time  hastens  so! 
Day  is  passing,  dew  is  falling. 
Hark!     Thy  mother's  voice  is  calling: 
Dearest  maiden,  I  must  go. 

Part  we  must,  dear  maid,  in  sorrow! 
Day  is  surely  doomed  to  die. 
Ah,  but  we  shall  find  to-morrow 
Countless  joys  we  let  go  by, 
Countless  words  we  uttered  not, 
Hours  we  robbed  of  wasted  chances, 
Eyes  we  balked  of  mutual  glances, 
Countless  kisses  we  forgot. 
196 


CORDT'S   SON 


Happy  smiles  will  haunt  thee  dreaming 
On  a  couch  of  virgin  white; 
In  my  brain  thy  picture  gleaming, 
I  shall  hasten  through  the  night. 
Let  the  crimson  sun  depart! 
Brighter  sunshine  in  thy  face  is, 
Sunshine  of  remembered  places, 
Love's  own  sunshine  in  thy  heart. 

She  remained  sitting  a  while  with  the  old 
music-sheet  in  her  hand.  Then  Finn  said : 

"  She  used  to  sing  that.  Do  you  know 
if  she  was  happy,  mother  ? " 

"  She  was  often  sad,"  said  Fru  Adelheid. 
"And,  when  she  was  sad,  she  sang." 

She  put  down  the  sheet  and  took  up 
the  first  music-book  that  came  to  hand, 
but  threw  it  aside,  as  though  it  had  burnt 
her  fingers. 

It  was  the  Lenore  songs,  which  she 
had  sung  to  Cordt. 

She  rose  and  went  back  to  her  place 
beside  Finn.  Then  she  sprang  up  and 

stood  with  her  arms  crossed  on  her  breast 

197 


THE   OLD    ROOM 


and  sat  down  again  and  stared  with  great 
eyes  through  the  window: 

"Finn  ...  if  I  sang  it  to  you  .  .  . 
would  you  recognize  the  .  .  .  the  song 
you  heard  when  Marie  carried  you 
down  .  .  .  ?" 

He  woke  from  his  dream  and  looked  at 
her  in  surprise: 

"The  song  ...  no  ...  I  should  not. 
Why,  do  you  remember  it  ?" 

"No,"  said  Fru  Adelheid. 

They  long  sat  silent.  Twilight  fell  and 
it  grew  dark  in  the  room. 

"  Mother,"  said  Finn,  "  what  are  women 
like?" 

She  turned  her  face  slowly  towards  him. 
He  did  not  look  at  her.  His  eyes  were 
far  away  and  she  realized  that  he  had 
forgotten  his  question  or  did  not  know 
that  he  had  put  it. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FRU  ADELHEID  stood  in  her  wraps  at 
the  window  and  looked  out.  The  horses 
were  stamping  in  the  porch  below;  the 
footman  stood  by  the  carriage-door  and 
waited. 

They  were  going  to  the  station  to  fetch 
Finn. 

He  had  been  abroad  the  whole  summer. 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
away  alone  and  he  had  not  enjoyed 
himself  abroad.  From  Florence,  Spain 
and  Paris  he  had  written  to  ask  if  he 
might  not  come  home.  But  Cordt  was 
resolved  that  he  should  remain  abroad 
for  the  time  agreed  upon. 

He  wrote  oftenest  to  Fru  Adelheid  .  .  . 

and  stupidly  and  awkwardly,  because  he 
199 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


knew  that  his  father  would  read  the  letters. 
Cordt  noticed  this,  but  said  nothing.  He 
hurried  through  the  letters  as  though  he 
were  looking  for  something  positive  and 
put  them  down  with  a  face  as  though  he 
had  not  found  it. 

He  always  gave  Fru  Adelheid  the  letters 
he  received,  although  she  never  asked  for 
them. 

Fru  Adelheid  looked  impatiently  at  her 
watch.  She  sat  down,  closed  her  eyes 
and  pressed  her  forehead  against  the  pane. 

She  thought  how  empty  the  house  had 
been  during  the  summer. 

Cordt  had  not  said  a  word  about  the 
old  room,  but,  from  the  day  when  Finn 
had  moved  up  there,  things  had  altered 
between  him  and  her.  Something  had 
happened  .  .  .  something  indefinite  and 
nameless,  but  none  the  less  fateful  on  that 
account. 


CORDT'S   SON 


And,  while  Finn  was  abroad,  this  had 
grown  between  them  .  .  .  without  their 
doing  anything  to  further  or  prevent  it. 
Neither  of  them  thought  about  it.  Both 
led  their  own  lives  and  drifted  farther 
apart  in  their  yearning  for  their  quiet 
child.  The  day  was  long  for  them,  their 
rooms  were  cold. 

But  inside  her  was  a  growing  anxiety  for 
Cordt,  who  became  ever  more  silent  and 
wore  such  a  melancholy  look  in  his  eyes. 

A  door  opened  and  she  sprang  up: 

"We  shall  be  late,  Cordt." 

"Not  at.  all,"  he  said,  calmly.  "You 
ordered  the  carriage  too  early." 

"Let  us  go,  Cordt.  We  may  just  as 
well  wait  there  as  here." 

Cordt  sat  down  with  his  hat  on  his  knee 
and  looked  at  her.  She  stood  with  bent 
head  and  buttoned  her  gloves. 

"Sit  down  for  a  moment,"  he  said  and 
pushed  a  chair  towards  her. 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"  Do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  ? " 

"Sit  down,  Adelheid,"  he  said,  im- 
patiently. "Sit  down  for  a  moment.'* 

Fru  Adelheid  leant  against  the  chair 
and  remained  standing. 

"It  is  long  since  we  talked  together, 
Adelheid  .  .  .  many,  many  years.  Do  you 
know  that?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"Very  likely,"  she  said  and  made  her 
voice  as  firm  as  she  could.  "We  have 
peace  now,  you  see." 

Cordt  nodded.  He  drummed  with  his 
fingers  on  his  hat  and  looked  out  of  the 
window: 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  no  doubt.  We  are  old, 
Adelheid.  As  old  as  can  be." 

"Is  that  what  you  wanted  to  say  to 
me?" 

"I  am  afraid  for  Finn,"  said  Cordt. 
"He  will  come  home  as  pale  as  when  he 
went  away,  a  poor  dreamer  by  the  grace 


CORDT'S   SON 


of  God.  To-morrow,  he  will  be  sitting 
up  there  and  staring  out  at  the  life  he 
dare  not  live.'* 

"Yes  .  .  .  why  should  he  be  up  in  the 
old  room  ? " 

"  It  was  he  who  asked  me,"  said  Cordt, 
calmly.  "I  could  not  deny  him  his  in- 
heritance. He  has  the  right  to  know  the 
ground  he  sprang  from." 

"And  what  then?  Do  you  think  you 
can  bring  the  dead  days  to  life  again  ? " 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  that. 
I  don't  want  that." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little.  She  did  not 
take  her  eyes  from  his  face.  Then  he  said : 

"  Finn  can  build  himself  a  new  house, 
if  he  likes.  Or  he  can  refurnish  his  an- 
cestral halls.  And  put  in  plate-glass 
windows  and  wide  staircases  and  any- 
thing that  suits  him  and  his  period.  But 
he  must  know  and  be  thankful  that  the 

walls  are  strong  and  the  towers  tall." 

203 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Fru  Adelheid  pushed  back  the  chair  she 
was  leaning  against: 

"There  does  not  appear  to  be  room  for 
a  mother  in  your  arrangement,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  trembled,  her  eyes  were  large 
and  angry.  But  Cordt  rose  and  looked 
as  calm  as  before: 

"You  went  out  of  it,  Adelheid.  You 
did  not  wish  to  be  there." 

She  made  no  reply.  She  understood 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  consult  her,  to 
ask  her  for  her  help  .  .  .  did  not  even 
want  it. 

"Adelheid  .  .  .  now  that  Finn  is  com- 
ing ..." 

"Yes?  ..." 

"I  am  afraid  for  him,  Adelheid.  And 
I  would  ask  you  to  be  on  your  guard  and 
do  him  no  harm.  I  believe  that  some- 
times you  smother  his  poor,  dejected 
spirit.  The  peace  which  you  have  gained 

may  be  good  in  itself  and  good  for  you 

204 


CORDT'S   SON 


.  .  .  but  he  is  young,  you  must  remember. 
He  is  only  at  the  start  of  life,  he  has  no 
need  for  peace  and  resignation.  What 
is  a  boon  to  you  is  death  to  him, 
perhaps  .  .  ." 

She  took  a  step  forward  and  raised  her 
face  close  up  to  his: 

"Now  it  has  come  to  this,  Cordt,  that 
you  think  I  am  your  enemy  for  Finn's 
sake." 

"You  may  become  so,"  he  said. 

"You  will  drive  me  to  it,  Cordt." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  tight  when 
she  tried  to  draw  it  away: 

"No,"  he  said.  "No,  Adelheid.  I 
only  want  to  warn  you." 


205 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  balcony-door  was  standing  open, 
because  they  had  forgotten  to  close  it. 
But  the  weather  was  mild  and  there 
was  hardly  any  wind.  Now  and  again, 
a  yellow  leaf  fell  somewhere  or  other 
from  the  baluster.  It  began  to  grow 
dusk. 

Fru  Adelheid  sat  with  her  head  in  her 
hands  and  stared  out  before  her. 

Cordt's  words  kept  ringing  in  her 
ears.  She  did  not  think  either  that 
Finn  was  as  he  used  io  be.  He  was 
restless,  could  not  sit  still,  talked  more 
than  usual: 

"Wherever  I  went,  I  found  the  foun- 
tain outside,"  he  said.  "It  followed  me 

throughout  my  journey.     There  was  not 

206 


CORDT'S   SON 


a  rushing  noise  so  strong  but  the  foun- 
tain sounded  through  it  nor  a  night  so 
still  but  it  came  rippling  and  sang  me 
home  again  to  the  old  room.  ...  I 
wonder,  did  one  of  the  owners  of  this 
house  set  it  up  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Yes,"  said  Finn.  "That  must  be  it. 
I  am  sure  of  it.  Perhaps  it  was  the  one 
who  built  the  house.  You  see,  it  forms 
part  and  parcel  of  the  old  room  ...  it 
sums  it  all  up.  If  there  was  nothing  else 
but  the  fountain,  it  would  all  be  here  just 
the  same.  I  must  ask  father." 

She  shivered  with  cold  and  Finn  shut 
the  door: 

"  We  are  chilly  people,"  he  said.  "  Both 
of  us.  We  are  not  like  father.  He 
laughed  at  me  yesterday  when  I  came 
down  to  his  room  to  say  good-morning 
and  wanted  to  shut  the  window.  '  Don't, 
Finn/  he  said.  'The  autumn  air  is 
207 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


bracing  and  healthy,  it  makes  one  young 
again  ...  sit  in  the  draught  and  don't 
be  afraid,  old  man  that  you  are!" 

"Yes,  father  is  strong." 

Finn  looked  at  her  stealthily. 

He  had  soon  understood  that  his  parents 
had  drifted  apart  while  he  was  abroad; 
and  he  suffered  in  consequence.  He  was 
as  kind  and  affectionate  to  his  mother  as 
ever;  but  his  thoughts  were  always  hark- 
ing back  to  Cordt,  whatever  they  might 
be  talking  of: 

"Father  is  so  sad,"  he  said. 

"I  haven't  noticed  it." 

She  colored  after  saying  this.  But 
Finn  was  not  looking  at  her,  scarcely 
heard  her  reply: 

"It  was  strange,  mother  .  .  .  out  there, 
on  my  journey,  ever  so  many  times  I  had 
a  feeling  that  I  came  upon  father.  Wher- 
ever I  went,  I  would  suddenly  hear  his 

voice  .  .  .  then  he  would  be  close  to  me, 

208 


CORDT'S   SON 


I  walked  with  him,  regulated  my  step  by 
his  and  talked  to  him." 

He  laid  his  head  back  in  his  chair  and 
closed  his  eyes: 

"  Often  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  where 
I  came  and  prepared  everything  for  me, 
so  that  I  saw  him  in  every  corner.  Some- 
times I  felt  that  I  must  put  off  my  de- 
parture until  he  came.'* 

"And  did  he  come?" 

"Always.     Wasn't  that  strange  ?" 

"Yes." 

Fru  Adelheid  thought  the  sound  of  his 
voice  was  different  from  ordinary.  He 
did  not  look  at  her,  as  he  was  used 
to  do  ...  his  thoughts  were  not  with 
her. 

"Where  were  you  and  father  to-day?" 
she  asked. 

"We  went  out  into  the  woods  ...  a 
long  way  out.     Father  was  silent,  but  not 
so  bored  as  at  home.     It  was  so  lovely 
209 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


out  there  .  .  .  and  so  strange.     One  could 
hardly  see  a  thing  ...  for  the  leaves  fall- 

ing." 

"Yes,"  said  Fru  Adelheid. 

Then  she  bent  over  him  to  look  into 
his  face,  which  had  grown  thinner  and 
paler  during  the  time  that  he  was  away: 

"Finn,"  she  said,  "was  I  not  with  you 
.  .  .  out  there  .  .  .  when  you  were  trav- 
elling?" 

Finn  smiled  and  nodded  his  head: 

"You  came  in  your  letters,"  he  said. 
"That  father  never  did.  But  you  were 
mostly  here  at  home,  where  I  was  long- 
ing to  be." 

She  thought  it  was  strange  that  he  did 
not  take  her  hand  when  he  said  that. 

And,  suddenly,  she  became  conscious 
that  she  was  sitting  in  terror  lest  he  should 
slip  away  from  her. 

What  had  she  to  hold  him  with,  if  any- 
thing seized  him  that  was  stronger  than 


CORDT'S   SON 


their  quiet  life  in  these  hours  .  .  .  what 
had  she,  if  he  went  .  .  .  ? 

It  seemed  to  her  as  though  Cordt  stood 
in  the  room  and  beckoned  him  out  into 
the  yellow  woods,  where  the  air  was  so 
bracing  and  good.  And  Finn  leapt  up 
with  a  joyful  cry  .  .  .  they  went  away  .  .  . 
and  never  looked  back.  .  .  . 

She  felt  that  Cordt  was  stronger  than 
she  and  hated  him  for  it.  She  sought  for 
a  weapon  to  defend  herself.  She  wished 
that  Finn,  who  loved  her,  would  lie  down 
before  her,  as  he  so  often  used  to  do,  with 
his  cheek  against  her  hand.  And  she 
knew  that  he  was  not  thinking  of  it. 

She  felt  so  wretched  and  so  lonely  that 
she  grew  frightened  and  called  upon  her 
old  longing  for  the  red  happiness  ...  if 
only  it  would  come  and  take  her,  so  that 
she  might  have  something  to  set  against 
him  who  had  everything.  .  .  . 

"Sing  to  me,  mother,"  said  Finn. 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Yes,"  she  said. 

She  crossed  the  room  with  a  stronger 
step  than  usual.  Her  cheek  was  red  and 
her  eyes  glowed.  She  took  hold  of  the 
instrument  with  firm  hands  when  she 
opened  it.  Finn  noticed  this  and  looked 
at  her  in  surprise;  but  it  was  not  light 
enough  for  him  to  make  out  her  face. 

Lovs't  thou  the  peasant  in  his  cosy  cottage-nook  ? 
Thou  shalt  share  bed  and  board  with  him,  eating 

and  sleeping; 

Thou  shalt  tranquilly  brew  and  merrily  cook; 
Dusty  wheel,  rusty  needle  thy  care  shall  not  brook; 
Thou  shalt  bless  sun  and  rain  in  God's  keeping. 
But  she  that  loves  none  shall  go  weeping! 

Lovs't  thou  the  poet  with  harp  all  of  gold  ? 

Thou  shalt  list  to  his  song  o'er  the  loud  strings 

sweeping; 
Thou  shalt  meet  him,  where  flowrets  peep  from  the 

wold; 

By  thy  smiles  shall  his  going  and  coming  be  told, 
His  mind  in  thy  joyfulness  steeping. 

But  she  that  loves  none  shall  go  weeping! 


CORDT'S   SON 


Lovs't  thou  the  lordling,  who  hunts  in  the  grove  ? 
Thou  shalt  sue  to  thy  mother  and  fly  from  her 

keeping; 

Thou  shalt  give  him  thy  lips  and  give  him  thy  love; 
Thou  shalt  take,  as  he  flings  horse  or  hound  from 

above, 
Blows,  fame  and  food  flung  to  thee  creeping. 

But  she  that  loves  none  shall  go  weeping! 

Fru  Adelheid  remained  sitting  with 
bowed  head. 

The  song  had  broken  her  pride.  She 
trembled  over  all  her  body  and  [great  tears 
fell  upon  her  hands.  She  had  conjured 
up  spirits  which  she  could  not  lay;  she  felt 
more  powerless  and  small  than  she  had 
ever  felt  before. 

She  began  to  think  of  Finn  and  looked 
round  in  alarm.  But  he  could  not  see 
her  and  she  wept  silently.  She  laid  her 
forehead  against  the  spinet  .  .  .  then  her 
hand  fell  upon  the  keyboard  and  she 
started  and  rose  from  her  seat. 

"That  was  a  strange  song,"  said  Finn. 
313 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


It  was  so  still  in  the  room  that  she  could 
not  bear  it. 

"I  have  not  sung  it  for  many  years/' 
she  said.  "  In  the  old  days,  I  used  to  sing 
it  often." 

"What  was  father  like  when  you  met 
him  ?"  asked  Finn. 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  him  and 
turned  the  pages  of  the  music  with  trem- 
bling hands. 

"Was  he  as  handsome  as  now?" 

"Yes  ...  no.  ...  I  don't  know  if  he 
was  handsome." 

Finn  listened. 

"He  was  ...  he  was  charming." 

"That  he  was  .  .  .  that  he  was,"  he 
said  and  clapped  his  hands  like  a  child 
who  is  delighted  with  a  story.  "And 
then  he  was  so  masterful  .  .  .  was  he  not  ? 
...  So  that  one  was  bound  to  follow 
him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Fru  Adelheid. 

214 


CORDT'S   SON 


"Father  was  a  king,"  said  Finn. 

Her  heart  throbbed,  she  listened  with 
all  her  senses.  She  felt  that  Finn  was 
somewhere  close  to  her  and  accomplish- 
ing something  that  would  destroy  her. 
And  she  could  not  turn  round,  could  not 
go  to  him  and  beg  him  to  desist. 

"I  could  wish  I  had  a  brother,"  said 
Finn. 

"Do  you  feel  lonely?" 

"No  ...  no,  it  is  not  that.  But  then 
he  should  have  the  kingdom." 


315 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AT  that  time,  Finn  made  a  friend  whom 
he  had  not  chosen  or  wanted  for  himself, 
but  whom  Cordt  gave  him  in  his  anxiety, 
because  he  thought  he  could  never  get  any 
one  better. 

His  name  was  Hans  and  they  had 
known  each  other  since  they  were  children. 
He  was  a  year  older  than  Finn,  not  quite  so 
tall,  but  more  powerfully  developed,  with 
bright  hair  and  eyes  and  disposition. 

His  father  was  a  little  man  who  sat 
among  the  people  in  the  counting-house, 
where  his  father  had  sat  before  him. 
He  and  his  little  wife  had  no  luck  in  life 
save  their  son.  But  at  times  they  trem- 
bled for  his  future,  because  his  ideas  were 

so  pronounced  and  took  so  wide  a  range. 
216 


CORDT'S   SON 


For,  even  as  he  was  taller  than  his 
father,  so  he  would  not  be  content  with 
his  measure  in  anything. 

Above  all,  he  did  not  want  to  sit  in  the 
office,  but  to  go  out  in  the  world,  big  as 
it  was.  And,  from  the  time  when  he 
was  a  little  boy,  he  believed  that  it  was 
bigger  than  they  told  him. 

Now  that  he  had  grown  up  and  be- 
come conscious  of  his  need  and  his  powers 
and  could  not  get  anywhere,  he  went  fear- 
lessly to  the  master  of  the  house  and  told 
him  how  the  matter  stood. 

Cordt  liked  him  and  wanted  to  keep 
him  for  his  house,  but  soon  saw  that  he 
had  nothing  that  could  tempt  him.  He 
asked  him  what  he  would  like  to  be;  and 
it  appeared  that  Hans  wanted  to  be  an 
engineer. 

Cordt  looked  at  him  and  thought  that 
his  glance  could  blast  rocks. 

Then  he  promised  his  assistance  and 

217 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


remained  sitting  in  deep  thought,  while 
Hans  went  down  the  stairs  singing. 

Time  passed.  He  advanced  along  his 
road  and  both  he  and  the  others  could 
see  that  he  was  fully  keeping  pace  with 
his  dreams.  Cordt  did  not  lose  sight  of 
him  and  was  pleased  when  he  called.  But 
Fru  Adelheid  did  not  like  him,  because 
he  talked  so  loud  and  had  such  a  heavy 
tread. 

One  evening,  Cordt  stood  in  Hans' 
room  and  talked  to  him  as  he  had  never 
talked  to  any  one: 

"I  am  your  father's  employer,"  he 
said,  "and  my  father  was  your  grand- 
father's. My  son  will  never  be  yours. 
For  you  mean  to  make  your  own  way  and 
be  your  own  master.  You  would  have 
done  that  even  if  no  one  had  lent  you  a 
helping  hand.  That  is  true.  But  then 
you  would  have  become  bitter,  perhaps, 

and  distrustful  and  narrow-minded  in  the 

218 


CORDT'S   SON 


use  of  your  strength.  From  this  I  de- 
livered you.  To-day,  I  come  to  ask  for 
a  return." 

Hans  had  taken  the  hand  which  he  put 
out  to  him  and  stood  ill  at  ease,  without 
understanding.  And  Cordt  sat  down 
wearily  and  sat  long  without  speaking 
further. 

At  last,  he  woke  from  his  thoughts  and 
looked  at  the  young  man,  who  could  not 
interpret  his  glance,  but  was  moved  by  it: 

"  I  do  not  wish  that  you  were  my  son," 
he  said.  "  I  have  a  son  and  he  is  a  good 
lad  and  I  love  him.  He  has  not  your 
strength  of  character,  but  then  he  does 
not  need  it.  His  path  was  smoothed  and 
shaded  from  the  day  when  he  was  born 
and  grew  up.  But  he  can  give  you  many 
things  which  you  have  not." 

He  listened  to  his  own  words,  to  the 
way  in  which  they  kept  on  shaping  them- 
selves into  an  apology  for  Finn,  a  prayer 
219 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


for  forbearance  towards  him.  He  suffered 
at  this;  and  Hans,  who  saw  his  distress, 
felt,  without  understanding,  that  some- 
thing important  and  tragic  was  taking 
place  in  this  great  house,  where  he  and 
his  had  earned  their  living. 

"Will  you  try  if  you  can  be  his  friend  ?" 

Hans  was  quite  willing. 

Cordt  looked  at  him  and  gauged  his 
strength.  He  looked  round  in  the  little 
low-ceilinged  room  which  contained  no- 
thing but  what  served  Hans  in  his  work. 
He  looked  out  of  the  window,  where  the 
roofs  intersected  one  another,  dirty  and 
grey  against  the  sky:  smoke  rose  from 
hundreds  of  chimneys,  the  noise  of  the 
courtyard  and  the  street  filled  the  room, 
the  window  was  broken  and  pasted  up 
with  paper. 

Then  he  again  turned  his  eyes  to  the 
man  who  sat  amidst  these  mean  surround- 
ings and  grew  up  strong.  And  Cordt 


CORDT'S   SON 


knew  that  he  was  not  standing  here  as  his 
benefactor  and  his  father's  employer,  who 
was  opening  his  rich  house  to  him.  He 
stood  here  as  one  who  could  beg  and 
nothing  more. 

"  You  know  you  used  to  play  together  as 
children,"  he  said. 

And,  when  he  had  said  that,  he  was 
overcome  with  emotion,  because  he  re- 
membered that  Finn  had  never  played. 
Hans  thought  the  same  thing,  but  could 
not  find  the  words  that  should  be  spoken 
on  this  occasion  and  the  silence  became 
heavy  and  painful  to  both  of  them. 

To  say  something  at  all  costs,  Hans 
asked  if  Finn  was  ill. 

Then  Cordt  understood  that  Hans  must 
long  since  have  pronounced  his  judgment 
on  the  pale,  silent  heir  of  the  house  and 
that  the  judgment  could  not  be  good. 

He  rose,  tired  of  seeking  for  guarded 
phrases.  He  laid  his  hands  on  Hans' 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


shoulders  and  looked  at  him  in  such  a 
way  that  Hans  never  forgot  it: 

"Do  you  be  David,"  he  said.  "Come 
to  us  with  your  harp.  And  come  of  your 
own  accord  and  come  when  we  send  for 
you/' 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  first  thing  was  that  Finn  had  his 
former  room  arranged  so  that  he  and 
Hans  could  be  there  when  Hans  came  to 
see  him. 

There  was  nothing  said  about  it.  For 
it  was  taken  as  a  matter  of  course  that  no 
stranger  should  set  foot  in  the  old  room. 
But  Cordt  at  once  thought  that  his  hope 
in  Hans  was  shattered. 

Sometimes  Finn  was  glad  when  Hans 
was  there. 

They  could  never  talk  together. 

Hans'  thoughts  were  constantly  at. 
work  on  plans  and  difficulties,  the  least 
of  which  seemed  quite  unsurmountable 
to  Finn,  and  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea 
as  to  what  passed  in  his  friend's  brain. 
223 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


He  talked  to  all  men  alike  and  his  words 
were  all  questions  or  answers  or  opinions. 

So  it  was  Hans  who  spoke  and,  wholly 
taken  up  with  himself  as  he  was,  he  sel- 
dom noticed  that  Finn  fell  a-dreaming. 

When  Finn  could  get  him  to  set  to 
work  on  some  calculation  or  other,  he 
himself  sat  delighted  and  watched  Hans 
while  he  struggled  with  figures  and  draw- 
ings. 

He  was  amused  at  Hans'  wrinkled  fore- 
head, his  eager,  impatient  movements. 
And  he  waited  expectantly,  like  one  sit- 
ting on  a  race-ground,  or  wherever  else 
men  are  engaged  in  contest,  for  the  shout 
with  which  the  engineer  would  fling  aside 
the  pencil  when  the  problem  was  solved. 

Then  Finn's  face  beamed  with  delight. 
He  was  as  pleased  as  if  it  had  been  him- 
self that  had  gained  the  triumph  and  he 
had  no  notion  what  sort  of  triumph  it  was 

or  what  it  was  worth. 

224 


CORDT'S   SON 


But  sometimes,  and  more  and  more  fre- 
quently, Hans  was  too  active,  too  rest- 
less for  him. 

There  were  days  on  which  Finn  hid 
when  his  friend  called.  Often,  Hans' 
mere  presence  in  the  room  occasioned  him 
real  bodily  pain.  He  could  feel  half  un- 
conscious under  his  powerful  glance,  his 
voice,  which  was  so  loud  and  jolly,  his 
words,  which  all  meant  something. 

Then  he  sat  tortured  and  wretched,  be- 
cause it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  ask 
the  other  to  go.  And  it  was  only  seldom 
that  Hans  perceived  this.  When  it  did 
happen,  there  was  no  end  to  his  awkward 
distress;  and  then  Finn  was  not  content 
before  he  had  succeeded  in  persuading 
him  that  he  was  quite  wrong. 

Then    Finn    submitted,    in    the    same 

way  in  which  a  hopeless  invalid  submits  to 

a  new  cure  which  prepares  new  sufferings 

for  him  and  in  which  he  does  not  him- 

225 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


self  believe.  And,  while  he  suffered,  he 
thought  incessantly  of  his  father,  who 
suffered  more  than  he  did  and  whom  he 
could  not  help. 

His  best  time  was  when  they  were  out 
together. 

They  drove  and  rode;  and  then  they 
were  never  agreed,  for  Finn  wanted  to 
ride  slowly  and  drive  fast  and  Hans 
wanted  just  the  opposite.  They  were 
always  eager  to  accommodate  themselves 
to  each  other,  but  this  came  to  pass  only 
when  it  was  Finn's  wish  that  prevailed. 

Finn  did  not  like  going  out.  But,  once 
he  had  started,  he  was  glad;  and  then  he 
always  wanted  to  have  Hans  with  him. 
He  was  shy  in  a  crowd  and  his  friend's 
presence  reassured  him. 

They  generally  walked  in  the  streets, 
for  Finn  felt  cold  if  he  went  outside  the 
town.  Then  he  took  Hans'  arm  and 

kept  step  with  him  and  was  proud  of  him. 

226 


CORDT'S   SON 


He  liked  to  hear  his  strong  voice  through 
the  noise  of  the  street,  his  quick  step,  the 
tap  of  his  stick  on  the  pavement. 

Then  Finn  would  sometimes  begin  to 
talk. 

Mostly  of  his  travels.  And  he  could 
speak  of  these  almost  as  he  thought  and 
as  he  spoke  to  his  mother.  It  was  as 
though  the  life  and  the  noise  that  half 
drowned  his  words  made  him  feel  freer 
and  safer. 

And,  although  Hans  cared  but  little 
for  what  Finn  had  seen  and  talked  about, 
still  there  was  a  color  and  a  gleam  about 
his  words  that  captivated  him. 

But,  when  it  happened  that  the  noise 
in  the  street  was  suddenly  stilled,  then 
Finn  was  silent  and  frightened.  And,  if, 
for  a  moment,  they  were  separated  in 
the  crowd  and  Hans  failed  to  catch  a  sen- 
tence and  asked  him  to  repeat  it,  or  seized 
upon  some  phrase  and  asked  for  a  fur- 
227 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


ther  explanation  and  confirmation,  then 
Finn  was  forthwith  tired  and  his  mood 
changed. 

He  often  stopped  when  a  piece  of  street- 
life  caught  his  attention.  He  pointed  it 
out  to  his  friend  and  made  it  the  subject 
of  his  talk.  Then  Hans  would  underline 
his  words  with  some  racy  observation  or 
other,  which  amused  Finn,  but  after- 
wards annoyed  him,  because  it  spoilt  the 
picture  for  him. 

They  never  talked  about  women. 

Finn  was  silent,  because  his  thoughts 
were  vague  and  modest.  And  Hans'  ex- 
periences were  not  of  such  a  nature  that 
he  cared  to  talk  about  them.  Then,  also, 
they  both  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that 
they  had  less  in  common  on  this  subject 
than  on  any  other  and  that  they  did  not 
wish  ever  to  cross  each  other's  path. 

On  one  occasion  only  was  Finn  his 
friend's  guest  in  his  home. 


CORDT'S   SON 


It  was  a  regular  feast  in  the  little  rooms, 
high  ijp  under  the  roof,  and  Finn  was 
glad  to  be  there. 

He  looked  in  delight  at  the  two  little 
old  people  who  stood  and  sat  with  folded 
hands  and  little  bows  and  nods  and  did 
not  know  how  to  show  their  respect  and 
gratitude  to  the  young  master  of  the 
house.  They  took  it  for  granted,  as  a 
settled  thing,  that  Finn  must  be  vexed 
because  Hans  had  broken  with  tradition 
and  gone  his  own  way  and  they  made 
endless  covert  excuses  for  it. 

And  through  the  excuses  rang  their 
pride  in  the  strong  son  whom  they 
handled  as  cautiously  as  though  he  would 
fall  to  pieces  if  they  took  firm  hold  of 
him  .  .  .  their  joyous  dread  of  the  great- 
ness that  awaited  him. 

Finn  understood  them  and  was  touched 
by  them.     He  sang  his  friend's  praises 
and   prophesied   a   preposterous  success 
229 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


for  him  and  was  happy  to  read  the  glad- 
ness in  the  little  parents'  eyes. 

And,  while  he  was  deep  in  conversation 
with  them  and  amused  at  Hans,  who  was 
utterly  confused  that  his  friend  should 
see  the  adoration  of  which  he  was  the 
object,  the  picture  of  his  own  parents 
suddenly  rose  before  his  thoughts  like 
great  black  silhouettes  against  the  light 
background. 

He  stopped  talking  and  then  they  all 
became  silent  and  it  was  not  pleasant  in 
the  room. 

Afterwards,  he  stood  with  Hans  and 
looked  through  the  open  window. 

His  eyes  roamed  over  the  hundreds  of 
roofs.  The  sun  shone  on  the  slates  and 
the  red  tiles  and  lit  up  the  telephone- 
wires.  Little  garret-windows  stuck  out  on 
every  side  .  .  .  with  chintz  curtains,  with 
wall-flowers  and  geraniums  and  pelargo- 
niums and  yellow  birds  in  white  cages. 


CORDT'S   SON 


In  one  place  there  hung  an  elegantly- 
painted  wooden  box  with  ferns,  which 
were  quite  brown,  but  stood  proud  and 
stiff,  and  a  little  fir-tree  in  the  middle. 
In  another,  the  curtain  fluttered  right  out 
into  the  air  and  waved  and  flapped  like 
a  flag.  Here,  two  sparrows  hopped  about 
in  the  gutter  .  .  .  there,  a  caged  bird  was 
singing,  shrilly  and  sweetly. 

"How  charming  this  is!"  he  said. 

Hans  did  not  exactly  think  so. 

But,  at  that  moment,  Finn  set  eyes  on 
a  window  a  little  to  one  side  and  so  near 
that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  reach  across  to  it. 

The  window  was  open.  There  were 
flowers  in  it  and  there  was  a  bird  which 
hopped  from  perch  to  perch  in  its  cage, 
silently  and  unceasingly.  Behind  the 
flowers  sat  a  young  girl  sewing.  He  could 
see  the  back  of  her  and  a  bit  of  her  chin 
and  hear  the  stitching  of  the  sewing- 
machine: 

331 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Look,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 

Hans  came  up  and  at  once  looked  away 
again : 

"That's  Marie,"  he  said.  "She's  a 
seam-stress." 

There  was  nothing  wrong  either  in  the 
words  or  in  the  tone  in  which  they  were 
uttered.  But  he  said  it  so  loud  and  so 
carelessly  that  it  hurt  Finn.  The  girl 
opposite  looked  up  and  smiled. 

Then  something  like  a  cloud  passed 
over  the  whole  picture,  with  the  flowers 
and  the  bird  and  the  sunny  roofs.  Finn 
sighed  and  came  away  from  the  window. 

And,  when  they  sat  together  at  sup- 
per and  had  finished  eating,  suddenly 
there  fell  upon  him  an  insuppressible 
melancholy. 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and 
read  in  their  faces  that  they  were  sub- 
duing their  gladness  on  his  account.  He 

imagined  what  it  was  like  when  the  three 

232 


CORDT'S   SON 


were  alone,  busy  and  cheerful  in  their 
work  and  in  their  faith  in  one  another. 

And  behind  their  kind  words  and  smiles 
he  felt  the  pity  for  their  quiet  guest.  But 
he  thought  of  this  only  as  pity  for  Cordt 
and  of  himself  as  one  who  suffered  blame. 

Then  he  hurriedly  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HANS  and  Finn  were  driving  in  the 
woods,  when  a  little  stray  dog  ran  under 
the  wheel  and  was  badly  hurt. 

They  both  jumped  out  of  the  carriage. 
Hans  knelt  on  the  ground  and  took  the 
gasping  dog  in  his  arms: 

"Give  me  your  pocket-handkerchief/' 
he  said. 

Not  receiving  it  at  once,  he  looked  up, 
impatiently. 

Finn  did  not  stir. 

He  stood  leaning  over  the  dog  and 
looking  into  its  glazed  eyes  with  a  great, 
deep,  strange  glance.  He  was  not  thinking 
whether  it  was  an  animal  or  a  human  be- 
ing, whether  it  could  be  saved  or  whether 
he  himself  could  do  anything.  .  .  . 
234 


CORDT'S   SON 


"Finn!" 

He  did  not  stir.  He  was  staring  into 
the  great  face  of  death.  The  door  of  the 
dark  house  was  flung  open  and  he  stared 
and  stared  into  the  darkness.  His  soul 
was  filled  with  a  devout  awe.  He  felt 
nothing,  saw  nothing,  but  life  expiring 
before  his  eyes. 

Hans  looked  at  him  speechlessly,  ter- 
rified at  the  expression  in  his  face,  which 
he  did  not  know  how  to  interpret,  and 
grew  more  and  more  agitated. 

"Give  me  your  pocket-handkerchief, 
Finn." 

Finn  started.  He  looked  up  and  handed 
him  the  handkerchief: 

"I  didn't  think  of  it,"  he  said. 

Hans  did  not  reply.  In  a  little  while, 
the  dog  was  dead  and  he  flung  it  in  among 
the  trees  in  such  a  way  that  Finn  could 
have  struck  him. 

They  got  into  the  carriage  and  drove  on 
335 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


in  silence.  Finn  thought  of  nothing  but 
what  he  had  seen  and  did  not  suspect 
his  friend's  agitation.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
told  the  coachman  to  pull  up: 

"You  mustn't  mind,  Hans,"  he  said. 
"I  am  going  to  get  out.  ...  I  can  go 
home  by  myself.  ...  I  want  to  be  alone 
for  a  little." 

Hans  jumped  out  of  the  carriage  and 
walked  away  without  saying  good-bye. 
Finn  took  no  notice.  He  let  the  coach- 
man shut  the  door,  shrank  into  a  corner 
and  drove  home. 

Fru  Adelheid  came  to  him  in  the  old 
room  and  could  not  make  him  speak  of 
what  lay  on  his  mind.  She  smiled  to 
him  and  took  his  hand  and  sang  for 
him. 

But  Finn  sat  silent  and  absent. 

Some  time  after,  the  friends  were  walk- 
ing, one  evening,  through  the  streets  and 

236 


CORDT'S   SON 


along  the  canal,  where  the  boats  lay  in  a 
row  and,  on  the  other  side,  an  old  castle 
stood,  with  broken  windows  and  charming 
green  roofs. 

"Let  us  sit  here  for  a  bit,"  said 
Finn. 

They  sat  on  the  quay.  The  water 
flowed  black  and  angry  beneath  them. 
The  boats  rocked  and  bumped  and 
swayed.  Hans  drummed  with  his  cane 
against  the  embankment-wall: 

"  Is  it  like  this  in  Venice  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Finn.  "It's  finer  there. 
Because  one's  strange  to  it." 

Hans  laughed  gaily  and  Finn  said 
nothing  more  and  looked  down  into  the 
water. 

Then  they  suddenly  heard  a  shout. 

They  both  sprang  up  and  ran  and, 
when  they  had  come  some  distance,  they 
saw  a  child  on  the  point  of  drowning: 

"Here,    Finn  .  .  .  help    me.  ..." 
337 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Hans  scrambled  down  into  one  of  the 
boats  and  was  fumbling  with  the  oars. 
But  Finn  ran  on  and  jumped  into  the 
water,  where  the  child  was,  without  a 
moment's  reflection. 

He  could  not  swim  and  Hans  had  first 
to  save  him.  Then,  with  the  greatest 
difficulty,  he  rescued  the  child.  They 
went  home  to  Cordt's  house  and,  when 
the  first  fright  was  over  and  it  became 
clear  that  Finn  had  suffered  no  harm, 
they  all  sat  in  the  living-room  and  talked 
about  it. 

Fru  Adelheid  held  Finn's  hand  between 
her  own  and  patted  it  and  pressed  it. 
Cordt  walked  up  and  down  in  great 
emotion. 

"How  could  you  take  it  into  your 
head?"  said  Hans.  "You  know  you 
can't  swim." 

"  I  never  gave  it  a  thought,"  said  Finn, 
quietly. 

238 


CORDT'S   SON 


Cordt  stopped  in  front  of  his  son  and 
nodded  to  him.  Fru  Adelheid  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead  and  her  eyes  beamed. 

Hans  looked  at  them,  crimson  with 
anger. 

He  thought  of  how  Finn  might  have 
been  drowned,  or  the  child,  or  both  of 
them.  Then  he  remembered  the  scene 
in  the  woods,  with  the  dying  dog.  He 
could  not  understand  these  people's  train 
of  thought  and  he  despised  it.  He 
looked  at  none  of  them  and,  with  an 
effort,  forced  his  voice  to  be  calm,,  as  he 
said: 

"  One  has  no  right  to  behave  like  that. 
It  is  stupid." 

"Yes,"  said  Finn. 

But  Cordt  put  his  hand  on  the  en- 
gineer's shoulder  and  looked  at  him 
in  such  a  way  that  Hans  suddenly  re- 
membered his  own  little  faint-hearted 

father: 

339 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Yes,"  said  Cordt,  "it  is  stupid  that 
Finn  shouldn't  know  how  to  swim." 

Then  it  was  decided  that  Cordt's  son 
should  learn  to  swim. 


240 


CHAPTER  XX 

FRU  ADELHEID  sat,  book  in  hand,  with- 
out reading. 

It  was  late.  Finn  had  been  with  her 
and  had  said  good-night  and  Cordt  was 
not  at  home.  It  was  silent  in  the  house 
and  silent  outside. 

She  had  a  feeling  as  though  she  were 
alone  in  the  world. 

Fru  Adelheid  was  not  happy. 

The  peace  which  the  good  grey  years 
had  brought  had  departed  from  the 
house.  She  could  not  see  her  way  any- 
where: not  with  Finn,  not  when  she  was 
alone,  least  of  all  when  Cordt  was  in  the 
room. 

She  did  not  feel  safe  even  at  church. 
It  would  happen  to  her  that  she  left 
241 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


church  heavier  in  mind  than  when  she 
entered.  It  also  happened  that  she  simply 
dared  not  go  in,  but  turned  back,  when 
the  organ  pealed  to  her  in  the  porch. 

She  sat  and  stared,  with  her  white 
hands  folded  in  her  lap.  She  wanted  to 
try  if  she  could  think  the  thing  out  to 
the  end.  But  she  had  trie.d  before,  with 
ever-decreasing  success. 

First,  there  was  the  going  back  to  the 
old  room. 

This  was  the  beginning  and  she  could 
not  but  think  that  it  was  the  whole 
matter,  for,  in  truth,  she  had  never  got 
over  it.  She  could  not  defend  herself 
against  the  memories  that  came  crowd- 
ing one  upon  the  other.  Her  blood  grew 
hot,  her  eyes  moist,  without  her  knowing 
why. 

She  suffered  from  a  constant  terror 
which  she  could  neither  explain  nor 
skake  off.  Now  it  was  Finn,  whose  pale 


CORDT'S   SON 


face  frightened  her.  Now  it  was  Cordt, 
who  was  silent  and  ever  more  silent  and 
brooded  over  his  thoughts. 

Then  she  was  overcome  as  by  a  de- 
spairing remorse  and  she  could  not  see 
how  she  had  offended.  Then  she  went 
in  a  secret  dread  of  revenge  and  she  knew 
of  no  one  who  meant  her  any  harm. 

There  were  days  on  which  every  step 
she  took  gave  a  dull  and  threatening 
echo  of  the  old  days.  She  felt  as  though 
she  were  living  in  a  house  whose  walls 
were  full  of  secret  recesses  with  old  docu- 
ments which  would  upset  everything  that 
existed,  if  they  came  to  light  ...  she  felt 
as  though  she  were  walking  over  myste- 
rious vaults  that  concealed  the  traces  of 
mysterious  crimes. 

Wearily,  Fru  Adelheid  leant  her  head 
upon  her  hand  and  let  her  hand  fall  again. 
She  half  rose  in  her  chair  and  hid  her  face 
in  the  roses  that  stood  on  the  table  before 

343 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


her.     She  took  up  the  book  and  put  it 
down  at  once. 

Then  Cordt  came. 

He  nodded  to  her,  went  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  room  and  sat  down  with  a 
book. 

She  looked  at  him  timidly.  She  heard 
him  turn  the  pages  and  wondered  what 
book  it  was.  She  asked  him.  He  an- 
swered, without  looking  up,  and  the 
silence  increased  twofold. 

Fru  Adelheid  sighed  and  rose  to  go  to 
bed: 

"  Good-night,  Cordt." 

He  closed  the  book  and  tossed  it  on 
the  table.  She  stopped  and  looked  at 
him.  Then  he  asked: 

"Has  Hans  been  here  to-day?" 

She  sat  down  in  her  chair  again.  He 
had  got  up  and  was  pacing  the  room. 
She  waited  and  listened  to  his  footsteps. 

Then  she  could  bear  it  no  longer: 
244 


CORDT'S   SON 


"Cordt!" 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

"Cordt  .  .  .  Finn  will  die,  if  Hans  is 
always  with  him." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  softly  and  sorrowfully. 
"  Finn  will  die  and  you  will  die  and  I  shall 
die.  But  Hans  will  live." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do  with  him, 
Cordt?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  what  I  want?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  his  eyes  hurt  her. 

"I  wonder  if  your  wish  is  also  mine, 
Cordt,"  she  asked. 

"No." 

He  said  that  calmly,  without  anger,  but 
also  without  hesitation. 

Then  she  leapt  up: 

"Your  wish  was  never  mine  .  .  .  never! 
You  have  been  able  to  persuade  me  and 
frighten  me  and  force  me.  ...  I  never 
meant  it,  Cordt,  never  .  .  .  even  when  I 
agreed." 

345 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


''Let  the  dead  days  be,  Adelheid." 

"And  now  .  .  .  Cordt.  .  .  .  Now  I  am 
farther  away  from  you  .  .  .  now  you  un- 
derstand me  less  than  ever  .  .  .  there  is 
something  in  me  now  that  is  a  thousand 
times  stronger  than  what  parted  us  then." 

Cordt  looked  at  her  with  a  tempest  in 
his  strong  eyes: 

"So  there  is  in  me,  Adelheid." 

He  stood  before  her,  drawn  up  to  his 
full  height.  She  thought  he  seemed  taller 
than  usual  and  his  face  looked  strangely 
young. 

"There  is  Finn,"  he  said. 

Fru  Adelheid  sat  in  her  chair,  because 
she  could  not  stand. 

"You  speak  as  if  he  were  your  son  and 
not  mine,"  she  said. 

She  did  not  take  her  eyes  from  his  face. 
She  could  not  get  rid  of  the  thought  that 
he  looked  so  young.  His  hair  had  not  a 

sign  of  grey,  his  walk  was  easy  and  erect 

246 


CORDT'S   SON 


as  in  the  old  days,  his  eyes  glowed  with 
the  same  strength  and  the  same  confi- 
dence. 

She  bent  forward  and  stared  and 
sought.  Surely  she  must  be  able  to  find 
the  wounds  which  sorrow  had  given  him, 
the  marks  which  age  had  brought. 

Cordt  did  not  look  at  her.  He  stood 
with  his  hands  folded  about  his  neck  and 
with  strangely  distant  eyes: 

"You  have  said  it,  Adelheid  ...  it  is 
as  you  say  .  .  .  there  is  something  now 
that  is  a  thousand  times  greater  than  what 
parted  us  then.  We  mortals  always  think, 
when  misfortunes  come,  that  no  more 
will  come  now  .  .  .  that  it  must  be  over 
now.  And  so  there  is  no  difference  be- 
tween the  child  with  its  lost  doll  and 
the  man  with  his  dead  love  .  .  .  none 
except  time,  which  comes  and  goes,  comes 
and  goes,  puts  out  a  light  and  kindles 
a  pyre  and  puts  out  the  pyre  also." 
347 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


He  dropped  his  arms  and  stood  silent 
for  a  while: 

"Adelheid  ..." 

He  said  no  more.  He  looked  round 
the  room  and  at  her,  as  though  he  were 
waking  from  his  thoughts.  Then  he  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  across  the 
square,  where  the  lights  were  being  put 
out. 

Fru  Adelheid  stared  with  great  fixed 
eyes  at  where  he  stood. 

She  had  not  seen  him  during  many 
years  .  .  .  where  had  she  been  all  those 
years  .  .  .  what  had  she  been  doing  ? 

Then  she  had  seen  him  again,  dis- 
tantly and  dimly  at  first,  like  the  memory 
of  a  fight,  a  pain,  on  the  day  when  she 
stood  once  more  in  the  old  room.  He 
had  come  closer  .  .  .  the  time  he  warned 
her  about  Finn.  And,  little  by  little,  he 
had  approached  her  through  Finn  .  .  . 

through  his  fears  and  his  love,  through  his 

248 


CORDT'S   SON 


every  word,  constantly  closer  and  more 
effectively. 

She  clutched  the  arms  of  the  chair  so 
firmly  that  her  knuckles  turned  white. 

Now  it  had  come  .  .  .  now  the  doors 
of  the  mysterious  cellars  grated  on  their 
rusty  hinges  and  the  crime  stood  revealed 
.  .  .  now  the  secret  recesses  in  the  walls 
were  opened  and  the  old  documents  bore 
witness  to  the  right.  .  .  . 

Now  there  was  no  longer  anything  be- 
tween her  and  him  and  there  was 'nothing 
outside  him  and  her.  He  stood  beside  her 
.  .  .  she  could  reach  him  with  her  hands. 
She  had  no  son  and  no  God.  His  words 
swept  over  her  like  a  storm,  his  eyes  were 
bent  upon  her.  .  .  . 

She  wanted  to  get  up  and  run  away, 
but  could  not.  A  sort  of  dizziness  came 
over  her  and  the  ground  retreated  under 
her  feet. 

There  were  voices  which  told  her  that 

249 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


it  was  surely  a  very  old  and  forgotten 
story  ...  a  legend  preserved  in  the  ar- 
chives of  the  house  for  the  entertainment 
'and  instruction  of  future  times,  which 
would  possibly  judge  differently  from  the 
one  who  had  set  the  legend  down. 

There  were  others,  mocking  and  exult- 
ant voices,  which  whispered  to  her  that 
it  was  all  imagination  and  nothing  else 
.  .  .  that  Finn  belonged  to  her  and  not  to 
him,  that  all  his  confidence  and  all  his 
strength  would  break  like  glass  against 
that  pale,  quiet  boy,  who  loved  his  mother. 

There  were  hymns  and  psalms  and 
organ-pealing  and  impressive  words  about 
sin  and  forgiveness  and  Christ's  heavenly 
glory.  The  cool  air  of  the  church-vault 
passed  over  her  burning  forehead  ...  all 
the  bells  rang,  as  though  for  a  soul  in 
need. 

She  heard  it  all  and  it  vanished  like  a 
sound  in  the  air. 

250 


CORDT'S   SON 


And  all  the  voices  were  merged  before 
her  confused  thoughts. 

It  turned  into  an  evening  in  the  old 
days  ...  an  evening  of  lights  and  gaiety. 
She  saw  the  people  of  that  time  .  .  .  she 
heard  her  own  voice.  .  .  . 

Then,  suddenly,  it  was  quenched  in  the 
great  silence  of  the  old  room. 

The  candles  were  burning  on  the 
mantelpiece.  .  .  .  She  sat  and  stared  into 
the  red  hearth.  Now  Cordt  spoke  .  .  . 
Cordt  in  the  old  days: 

"  I  will  stake  life  and  happiness  to  win 
you.  I  will  talk  to  you  and  importune 
you  and  conquer  you.  I  will  take  you 
in  my  arms  and  close  my  door  to 
you  and  run  after  you  and  forgive  you. 
And,  if  I  do  not  win  you,  I  shall  cast 
you  off." 

She  sprang  up  and  clasped  her  head  in 
her  two  hands: 

"  Cordt  .  .  .  Cordt  ..." 
351 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


He  turned  round  and  looked  into  her 
white  face. 

She  raised  her  face  to  him  and  sought 
and  stared  after  her  portrait  in  his  eyes 
.  .  .  only  a  thought  from  the  old  days  .  .  . 
a  memory  .  .  . 

It  was  not  there.  For  him  there  was 
nothing  in  the  world  except  that  which 
was  his  happiness  and  his  fear  and  his 
struggle  .  .  .  now  as  in  the  old  days  .  .  . 

And  it  was  no  longer  she. 

"Adelheid  .  .  .  are  you  ill?" 

"No.  ..  no  ..." 

She  laughed  aloud.  Cordt  took  her 
hands  and  led  her  to  a  chair.  She  let  him 
do  as  he  would  and  continued  to  look  up 
in  his  face. 

Then  she  suddenly  thrust  him  from  her. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head  at  her 
folly.     She  rose  and  walked  round  the 
room.     She  said  she  was  quite  well,  told 
him  to  go  away  .  .  .  just  to  go  away. 
252 


CORDT'S   SON 


And  Cordt  went. 

She  stared  at  the  door,  which  closed 
after  him,  as  though  she  had  seen  him 
for  the  last  time.  Then  she  turned  round 
and  looked  into  a  mirror  which  showed 
her  whole  figure. 

Slowly  she  walked  up  to  the  mirror,  sat 
down  before  it,  with  her  head  in  her 
hands,  and  stared  into  her  own  face. 

The  clock  struck  one  and  two  from 
the  church-steeples  and  she  did  not  hear. 
Then  some  one  shouted  down  in  the 
square.  She  rose,  took  a  candle  and  left 
the  room. 

She  went  through  the  long  passages  and 
up  the  stairs,  softly  and  carefully,  as  if 
she  were  a  thief.  She  listened  at  Cordt's 
door  and  at  Finn's.  Then  she  stood 
outside  the  old  room.  She  listened  .  .  . 
there  was  no  sound.  She  opened  the 
door  ajar  and  saw  that  it  was  dark. 

She  went  in  quickly  and  walked  straight 
253 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


up  to  the  secret  recess  in  the  wall.  She 
opened  it  and  took  the  yellow  document 
in  her  trembling  hands. 

Then  she  stared  at  Cordt's  name  and 
her  own,  which  were  written  down  last 
and  struck  out  again. 


254 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FINN  stood  at  the  window  in  Cordt's 
room,  with  his  head  leaning  against  the 
frame,  and  looked  down  into  the  yard, 
where  the  porter's  children  were  playing. 

He  had  come,  as  usual,  to  say  good- 
morning  and  Cordt  had  told  him  to  wait 
while  he  finished  a  letter.  The  letter  had 
been  sealed  for  some  time,  but  Finn  had 
not  noticed  it.  He  was  watching  the 
game  down  below  and  bending  forward 
to  see  better. 

Then  the  children  were  called  in.  He 
laid  his  head  against  the  window-frame 
again  and  looked  up  at  the  grey  sky.  He 
thought  of  Hans,  who  had  left  for  Paris 
that  morning  and  was  to  remain  abroad 

for  two  years. 

255 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Cordt  sat  silent.  From  where  he  was, 
he  could  see  Finn's  profile:  the  forehead, 
which  was  so  white,  the  eyelids,  which 
lifted  themselves  so  heavily,  the  mouth, 
which  was  so  tired  and  so  weak.  , 

"Finn!'' 

Finn  started  and  turned  round. 

"Did  you  see  Hans  off?" 

"Yes." 

Finn  sat  down  by  the  window  where  he 
stood,  with  bent  head  and  his  hands  upon 
his  knees.  He  wound  the  cord  of  the  blind 
round  his  fingers  and  unwound  it  again. 

"I  wonder  if  you  will  miss  Hans  ?" 

"Oh  ...  yes." 

"I  shall,"  said  Cordt.  "Hans  repre- 
sents the  new  order  at  its  finest  ...  the 
hero  in  modern  poetry  .  .  .  the  engineer, 
you  know,  whom  they  can  never  put  on 
the  stage  without  making  him  insipid 
.  .  .  because  he  never  acts  a  part.  He 
is  strong  and  has  the  courage  to  employ 
256 


CORDT'S   SON 


his  powers.  To  us  he  often  seems  lack- 
ing in  refinement  and  he  finds  it  difficult 
to  grant  us  our  due.  He  has  no  ances- 
tors ...  he  is  the  ancestor  ...  he  founds 
a  dynasty." 

"Yes,"  said  Finn. 

They  sat  silent  for  a  while. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  Cordt.  He 
knew  what  he  wanted  and  wanted  it.  He 
did  not  seek  for  kind  words,  but  strong 
words.  Finn  knew  this  too.  He  sat  like 
a  culprit  awaiting  sentence  and  was 
thankful  for  every  minute  that  passed. 

Then  they  looked  up  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

They  measured  each  other's  strength. 
And  Finn  was  strong  in  his  hopelessness, 
even  as  Cordt  was  strong  in  the  hope 
which  he  could  not  let  go,  because  he  had 
nothing  else  to  fall  back  upon. 

4 'Do  you  know  that  you  are  a  born 

artist,  Finn?" 

357 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Finn  smiled  sadly  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  are,"  said  Cordt.  "There  is  no 
doubt  about  it.  When  you  were  trav- 
elling abroad  .  .  .  there  was  simply  no- 
thing in  your  letters  but  delight  at  the 
pictures  you  saw.  Your  journey  was 
one  long  progress  through  a  royal  gallery. 
At  sea,  in  the  street,  on  the  mountains 
.  .  .  everywhere  you  caught  life  and  hung 
it  on  your  wall  and  sat  down  to  look  at  it." 

"Did  I?" 

"Had  you  not  been  born  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  your  mouth,  you  would  have  been 
lost  beyond  redeeming.  You  would  have 
become  a  painter  ...  no  ...  an  author." 

"Would  that  be  so  bad?" 

"What  use  is  literature  to  us  modern 
people?"  said  Cordt.  "Where  does  it 
lead  us  ?  How  does  it  form  our  lives  ?  If 
the  old  poets  had  lived  nowadays,  they 
would  certainly  have  been  merchants,  or 
electricians,  or  arctic  navigators.  .  .  .Just 
258 


CORDT'S   SON 


look  round  you,  Finn  .  .  .  the  books  we 
read,  the  pictures  we  look  at,  the  plays 
they  perform:  isn't  it  all  like  an  orchestra 
that  plays  for  an  hour  while  people  walk 
about  the  grounds  ?  Tired  people,  who 
like  to  hear  a  bit  of  music  before  they  go 
to  bed.  The  band  plays  its  tune  and  gets 
its  pay  and  its  applause  and  we  are  in- 
terested in  seeing  that  the  performance  is 
well  and  properly  given.  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  the 
poet,  Finn  ...  A  solitary  horn  sounds 
over  the  hills.  We  drop  the  plough  and 
listen  and  look  up,  because  the  notes  seem 
to  us  so  rare  and  so  powerful  and  we  have 
never  heard  them  before  and  know  them 
so  well.  Then  our  eyes  glisten.  And  the 
sorrow  that  bent  our  back  and  the  glad- 
ness that  held  us  erect  and  the  hope  we 
had  ...  all  of  that  suddenly  acquires 
color  and  light.  And  we  go  whither  the 
horn  calls  us  ...  over  the  hills  ...  to 
new  green  fields  where  it  is  better  living." 
259 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Father  .  .  ." 

Finn  raised  his  head,  but  then  could 
not  find  the  phrase  for  what  he  wanted  to 
say, 

"Don't  you  think  that  the  poet  must 
be  a  man  ...  a  man  like  the  others,  with 
courage  in  his  breast  and  a  sword  at  his 
thigh  ?  Then  he  goes  forth  and  sings 
them  to  battle  and  wedding,  to  dance  and 
death.  He  is  a  part  of  the  business,  fore- 
most in  the  crowd." 

"The  poets  also  sat  in  the  ladies' 
chambers  and  sang,"  said  Finn. 

Cordt  nodded: 

"They  did  that  also"  he  said.  "But 
the  poets  we  now  have  do  nothing  else. 
There  will  always  be  fiddlers  as  long  as 
there  are  idle  women  and  women  with 
two  husbands  and  wars  and  kings.  As 
long  as  the  stars  wander  so  far  through  the 
sky  and  the  children  cannot  catch  the 

bird  that  flies  in  the  bush.  .  .  .  But  never 
260 


CORDT'S   SON 


mind  that,  Finn.  Never  mind  that.  Just 
look  at  those  who  sit  in  the  orchestra  to- 
day. .  .  .  Would  you  sit  among  them  ? 
They  are  sick  people  singing  about  their 
sickness.  One  is  sick  with  love  and  one 
with  lewdness  and  one  with  drink.  One 
chants  his  faith  on  vellum,  another  sells 
his  doubts  in  sixpenny  editions.  The 
feeble  will  of  the  one  quavers  in  silly 
verses  .  .  .  the  other  intoxicates  his  pale 
fancy  with  blood  and  horrors  drawn  from 
the  olden  times.  Do  you  think  that  a 
free  man  would  of  his  own  accord  select 
his  place  among  those  artists  ? " 

Finn  looked  up  with  his  quiet  eyes: 

"Who  is  a  free  man,  father?  .  .  .  Are 
you?" 

Cordt  put  his  hands  on  Finn's  shoulders 
and  bent  over  him  and  looked  at  him: 

"You  are,  Finn.  .  .  .  You  are  a  free 
man  ...  if  you  wish  to  be." 

"Father.  .  ." 

261 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Finn  put  out  his  hands  like  a  child  ask- 
ing for  something.  But  Cordt  looked  at 
him  inexorably.  And  so  strong  and  radi- 
ant was  his  glance,  that  Finn  tried  to  es- 
cape it,  but  could  not;  tried  to  speak,  but 
was  silent. 

Then  Cordt  walked  across  the  room,  up 
and  down,  with  great,  calm  strides,  and 
spoke  and  was  silent  and  never  for  a  mo- 
ment released  his  son  from  his  stern  grasp. 

His  words  seized  Finn  and  lifted  him 
up  where  things  were  great  and  beauti- 
ful and  bitterly  cold,  he  thought;  then  let 
him  fall  again,  till  he  relapsed  into  his  own 
dark  corner;  and  seized  him  anew  and 
carried  him  aloft. 

But,  when  Cordt  ceased,  it  was  to  Finn 
as  though  he  heard  a  flourish  of  trumpets 
from  the  clouds  proclaiming  that  other 
words  were  now  coming,  greater  still  and 
austerer,  more  loving,  ever  heavier  to  bear. 

"You  are  right,  Finn.  ...  I  am  not  a 

262 


CORDT'S   SON 


free  man,  I  never  was.  I  am  bound  up 
in  the  tradition  that  built  my  house  and 
bore  my  race  and,  when  I  could  not  sup- 
port the  tradition,  things  broke  for  me. 
But  that  did  not  make  me  free.  .  .  .  Those 
were  heavy  days,  Finn.  I  could  not  under- 
stand it,  you  see,  and  I  fought  to  the  end. 
I  was  young  and  strong  and  I  was  in  love. 
You  are  fond  of  the  old  room  .  .  .  you 
can  hear  the  legends  up  there  singing 
their  powerful,  melancholy  song.  .  .  .  Re- 
member, Finn,  I  am  one  of  those  on  whom 
the  legend  is  laid.  I  have  lived  in  the 
secrecy  of  the  old  room.  ...  I  have  stood, 
in  my  calm,  proud  right  ...  up  there, 
where  the  room  stood,  unseen  by  any  one 
except  the  master  of  the  house  and  his 
wife  .  .  .  always  remote  and  locked  and 
hidden  in  its  time-honored  might  .  .  . 
always  open  to  him  who  owned  it.  ... 
I  left  it  like  a  beaten  man.  But  I  could 
not  retire  into  a  corner  and  mourn,  for  I 
263 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


had  you,  Finn.  You  were  only  a  little  child 
then,  so  I  could  not  know  how  your  paths 
would  go.  I  knew  only  one  thing,  that 
you  would  never  sit  with  your  wife  up 
there,  where  people  became  so  small  when 
they  sat  down  in  the  big  chairs  and  where 
it  was  so  pleasant  and  so  safe.  I  was  the 
last.  With  me,  the  tradition  of  the  old 
room  was  finished.  .  .  .  Then  I  had  to  try 
if  I  could  find  my  way  in  the  world  which 
I  did  not  understand.  I  had  to  go  through 
all  that  which  I  disliked  so  desperately 
and  which  had  killed  my  happiness.  For 
myself,  I  had  nothing  to  gain:  I  was  a 
bound  man  and  a  wounded.  But  I  had 
you,  Finn.  .  .  .  And  I  had  to  know  if 
they  were  building  properly  and  honestly 
somewhere  behind  all  the  dancing  and 
flirting  and  singing  which  I  saw  before 
my  eyes.  Or  if  it  was  no  different  from 
what  my  eyes  saw  and  if  I  should  not  be 
doing  best  to  carry  my  child  out  into  the 
264 


CORDT'S   SON 


mountains  and  let  the  wild  beasts  tear  it 
to  pieces.  ...  I  was  alone  in  this.  Your 
mother  went  to  live  in  an  old  house  be- 
side the  old  house  where  her  happiness 
could  not  grow.  There  she  found  peace. 
But  I  needed  no  refuge.  Where  I  was, 
I  was  at  home:  I  only  wanted  to  see  the 
place  where  you  and  your  children  should 
flourish.  ...  I  did  not  spare  myself,  Finn. 
I  sought  honestly,  south  and  north,  east 
and  west.  I  took  their  books  ...  the 
light  ones  burst  like  soap-bubbles  in  my 
hands  and  the  powerful  ones  my  thoughts 
had  to  struggle  to  understand.  Not  one 
of  their  green  visions  but  has  been  with 
me  in  my  room,  not  one  of  their  bright 
swords  but  has  flashed  before  my  eyes. 
...  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  be  blinded 
by  my  own  bitterness,  or  tricked  by  catch- 
words, or  frightened  by  abuse.  I  went 
on  as  long  as  I  could  see  the  way  .  .  .  and 
longer,  Finn.  I  peered  out  into  the  far- 
365 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


thest,  where  those  who  thought  as  I  did 
saw  nothing  but  horror  and  insanity. 
.  .  .  And  Finn  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  it  was  your  mother's  God  that 
helped  me  .  .  .  perhaps  it  was  my  an- 
cestor, who  himself  had  sailed  into  har- 
bor and  raised  our  house  on  new  ground 
for  many  a  good,  long  day.  Perhaps  it  was 
your  little  hand,  which  lay  so  trustingly 
in  mine,  when  you  used  to  come  to  me  in 
those  anxious,  lonely  days  and  say  good- 
morning  and  good-night.  ...  I  don't  know. 
I  daresay  it  was  my  love  for  you  that 
lifted  me  above  myself.  I  climbed  as  high 
up  the  mountains  as  a  mortal  can  climb. 
It  all  lay  under  my  feet  like  a  cloud  .  .  . 
longing  and  happiness  and  daily  bread 
and  daily  trouble.  I  could  not  see  the 
valley  in  which  my  house  was  built.  But 
out  of  the  cloud,  over  the  mountain,  I  saw 
the  road  where  we  hustle  and  strive,  gen- 
eration after  generation,  ever  forward 
266 


CORDT'S   SON 


towards  the  goal  which  we  cannot  see, 
but  which  is  there,  because  the  road  is 
there.  .  .  .  And  I  saw  land  .  .  .  the  prom- 
ised land  of  you  and  your  children  .  .  . 
from  the  mountain  where  I  stood.  A 
land  I  did  not  know  ...  a  land  strange 
to  my  eyes  .  .  .  people  with  other  habits 
and  other  beliefs,  with  a  different  form  of 
love  and  a  different  code  of  honor.  .  .  . 
I  saw  it  through  the  storm  that  flung  the 
door  of  the  old  room  wide  open.  .  .  .  That 
was  a  strange  time,  Finn  .  .  .  the  strongest 
in  my  life  and  the  happiest." 

Cordt  stood  at  the  window  with  his 
arms  crossed  over  his  chest.  He  looked 
at  his  son  and  smiled  sadly.  Finn  sat 
still,  with  his  head  thrown  back  in  his 
chair  and  his  eyes  closed. 

"Then  I  equipped  you  for  the  journey, 
Finn.  ...  I  did  not  show  you  this  way 
or  that,  for  I  was  a  bound  man  and  could 

not  go  with  you.     I  gave  you  books  and 
267 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


masters,  who  opened  all  the  gates  of  the 
world  to  you.  I  let  you  look  into  the 
mist  where  you  wanted  to  ride.  I  feared 
nothing,  because  I  wanted  nothing  for 
myself  and  because  I  had  seen  through 
the  mist.  .  .  .  You  grew  up  and  I  saw 
that  you  grew  good  and  clever.  Then  I 
sat  down  and  waited  and  longed  for  the 
day  when  I  should  wave  to  you  from  the 
balcony  of  my  old  house,  when  you 
marched  forth  to  conquer  your  new  land. 
...  I  was  right  to  wait  for  the  day.  .  .  . 
Ah.  ...  I  have  seen  them,  the  poor 
devils,  hungry  and  wounded,  rush  blind- 
fold towards  the  new,  which  they  did 
not  know,  because  it  could  not  possibly 
be  worse  than  the  old.  I  have  heard 
them  call  for  new  laws  because  they 
had  violated  the  old  ...  they  were  driven 
from  their  huts  and  sat  on  the  deck  of  the 
emigrant-ship  with  their  bundle  and  their 

uncertain  hope  for  a  better  fate  in  the  new 

268 


CORDT'S   SON 


world.  .  .  .  But  you.  .  .  .  You  had  done 
no  wrong  and  had  nothing  to  revenge. 
Free  as  a  king's  son,  you  rode  over  the 
bridge  with  your  retinue  and  rode  through 
the'  world  and  planted  your  banner 
wherever  you  chose  to  dwell.  Born  of 
your  mother's  longing  for  excitement  .  .  . 
in  your  father's  house,  whose  walls  are  as 
thick  as  the  walls  of  a  castle  .  .  .  with  the 
strong  air  of  the  old  room  in  your  lungs 
and  without  its  yoke  upon  your  neck  .  .  . 
a  rich  and  spotless  nobleman,  taking  his 
place  of  his  own  free  will  in  the  ranks  of 
the  revolution." 

He  was  silent.  His  steps  sounded 
heavily  through  the  stillness: 

"Are  you  with  me,  Finn?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Come." 

Finn  rose.  Cordt  put  his  arm  over 
his  shoulder  and  they  paced  the  room  to- 
gether. 

269 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


"I  had  so  many  dreams,  Finn.  And 
I  gained  such  confidence,  because  my 
own  happiness  was  shattered  and  I  had 
you.  I  had  become  an  old  man,  but  my 
mind  was  not  blunted.  I  had  suffered 
shipwreck,  but  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  sea. 
I  believed  in  life  ...  in  God,  if  you  like." 

They  did  not  walk  well  together  and 
Cordt  removed  his  arm.  Finn  sat  down 
in  his  chair  again  and  listened.  Cordt 
went  on  walking: 

"Then  came  the  days  which  you 
know  ...  the  days  of  the  present.  .  .  . 
You  grew  up  into  the  quiet  man  you  are. 
Your  eyes  looked  heavily  upon  life,  you 
shrank  back  timidly  when  you  saw  that 
there  was  fire  and  smoke  on  earth.  .  .  . 
You  kept  your  scutcheon  untarnished, 
but  that  is  easily  done,  when  one  doesn't 
fight.  You  were  never  in  places  where 
one  does  not  wish  to  be  seen  .  .  .  that  is 

true.     But  you  never  went  outside  your 

270 


CORDT'S   SON 


door,  Finn  .  .  .  never.  There  was  no 
fire  in  your  blood,  no  desire  in  your 
thoughts.  You  were  tired,  Finn  . . .  merely 
tired.  ...  I  grew  frightened  for  you.  .  .  . 
As  the  years  passed,  you  had  become  more 
to  me  than  a  son.  You  were  not  only  flesh 
of  my  flesh  and  bone  of  my  bone  .  .  .  you 
were  a  link  in  the  human  chain  that  goes 
on  through  the  ages,  ever  onward.  Your 
hand  was  in  mine,  but  your  life  was  more 
precious  than  mine.  For  you  had  to  carry 
a  greater  burden  and  to  carry  it  into  new 
ways.  .  .  .  Remember,  Finn,  I  had  been 
on  the  mountain  and  seen  through  the 
mist.  It  was  more  than  the  question  of 
an  inheritance,  more  than  family  pride 
and  family  loyalty.  You  and  I  were 
allied  in  a  great  cause.  And  I  sat  with 
the  map  before  me  and  followed  the  course 
of  the  battle  .  .  .  like  an  old  soldier,  who 
can  no  longer  sally  forth  himself,  but  who 
has  his  son  and  his  colors  and  his  emper- 
271 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


or  under  fire.  .  .  .  Remember  how  I  had 
arrived  at  where  I  was.  Remember  what 
I  had  lost,  what  I  had  let  go,  how  com- 
pletely I  had  sacrificed  myself  for  you. 
I  had  you,  Finn  .  .  .  had  I  anything  else  ? 
.  .  .  When  I,  then,  became  frightened  for 
you,  I  plunged  into  my  wonderful  treasure 
and  endowed  you  lavishly.  I  told  you 
the  legend  of  the  old  house  and  thought 
it  would  call  you  to  arms,  like  the  blast 
of  the  bugle  over  the  camp.  I  revealed 
your  father's  and  your  mother's  fate  to 
you,  that  you  might  see  how  people  fight 
for  happiness.  I  sent  you  out  into  the 
world,  where  life  is  bigger  and  stronger 
than  at  home,  so  that  life  might  make  you 
into  a  man.  .  .  .  But  never  .  .  .  never  did 
I  put  any  constraint  upon  you.  Never 
did  I  usurp  the  place  of  Providence. 
.  .  .  And  you  turned  over  the  pages  of 
the  picture-book  and  came  home  paler 

than  before  and  wearier.     The  old  room 

272 


CORDT'S   SON 


was  merely  a  charming  poem  to  you,  that 
sang  you  into  deeper  dreams.  Up  there 
.  .  .  where  the  strong  men  of  our  race  met 
their  wives,  when  the  sun  went  down  upon 
the  business  of  the  day,  and  talked  gladly 
and  earnestly  when  their  hearts  impelled 
them  to  ...  there  you  sit,  alone,  all  day 
long,  with  your  slack  hands." 

Then  he  laid  his  hands  firmly  on 
Finn's  shoulders.  And  Finn  looked  up 
with  moist  eyes  and  quivering  mouth. 

"To-day,  Finn,  I  have  given  you  your 
inheritance.  From  to-day,  I  look  upon 
you  as  of  age.  You  were  such  that  one 
could  not  use  coercion  with  you  .  .  .  and, 
in  fact,  there  was  none  that  wanted  to  use 
it.  Nor  could  one  be  angry  with  you 
.  you  were  the  same  ...  it  was  the 
same  .  .  .  always.  To-day,  that  is  past. 
Go  out  and  buy  yourself  a  house  and  take 
a  wife  and  have  children  by  her.  And 
remember  that,  if  there  were  some  in  the 
273 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


family  that  fell,  there  was  none  that 
flinched." 

"  Father  ...  I  understand  you  .  .  .  but 
I  cannot  do  what  you  want." 

Cordt  took  a  step  back  and  tossed  his 
thick  hair  from  his  forehead: 

"You  pale  people  understand  every- 
thing, because  no  faith  blinds  your  eyes: 
you  are  so  kind  and  clever,  you  think. 
You  judge  leniently,  you  do  not  judge  at 
all,  you  know  that  the  truth  is  nowhere 
and  everywhere.  You  justify  every  silly 
thought  you  have  entertained  .  .  .  you  sit 
for  all  time  and  contemplate  your  navel 
.  .  .  and  then  you  let  the  murderer  go 
and  the  thief  escape.  God  help  you  poor 
wretches!  The  stupidest,  the  most  ignorant 
dervish  is  cleverer  and  kinder  than  you!" 

Finn  wanted  to  say  something,  but 
Cordt  made  a  preventive  gesture  with  his 
hand: 

"A  man  must  not  understand  every- 
274 


CORDT'S   SON 


thing.  He  must  choose  and  judge  and 
reject.  If  he  doesn't  do  that,  there  is  no 
happiness  in  the  world  and  no  loyalty  and 
no  peace.  And,  if  he  cannot  hate,  he 
cannot  love  either." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
And,  as  he  stood  there,  Finn  came  up  to 
him  and  seized  his  hand  and  looked  at 
him  pleadingly: 

"  I  can't  do  what  you  want,"  he  said. 

But  Cordt  withdrew  his  hand  and 
moved  away  from  him: 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that  tome, 
Finn.  I  won't  listen  to  it.  For  what  I 
want  is  only  that  you  should  live.  Take 
the  inheritance  which  I  have  given  you 
and  use  it  as  you  can.  One  day,  you 
shall  be  called  upon  to  answer  for  your 
son,  as  I  to-day  for  you." 

Finn  smiled  sadly: 

"I  shall  never  have  a  son,"  he  said, 

softly. 

275 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Cordt  did  not  hear  what  he  said.  He 
was  struggling  with  a  memory  .  .  .  passed 
his  hand  over  his  face  and  stared  before 
him.  He  saw  Fru  Adelheid  .  .  .  that 
evening  in  the  old  room,  when  she  had 
said  what  Finn  was  saying  now  .  .  .  the 
same  hopeless,  impotent  words:  "I  can- 
not do  what  you  want." 

He  sat  down  and  fell  back  in  his  chair. 

All  the  despair  of  the  old  days  came 
over  him  like  a  tremendous  weariness. 
He  was  struggling  against  what  was 
stronger  than  himself.  He  had  nothing 
to  set  against  that  eternal,  hopeless,  "I 
cannot  do  what  you  want." 

Then  he  sprang  up  and  stood  in  front 
of  Finn  with  blazing  eyes: 

"If  it's  your  mother  who  paralyzes 
your  will,  then  fly  from  her,  hate  her, 
thrust  her  from  you  ..." 

"Father  .  .  .  father  ..." 

"Hate  her,   I   say.     She  was  smitten 

276 


CORDT'S   SON 


with  the  pestilence  from  her  youth.  She 
understood  everything  .  .  .  like  you.  To 
her  nothing  was  small  or  great,  nothing 
near  or  far.  Her  will  was  gone,  like 
yours.  She  knew  where  the  glory  lay,  if 
she  could  reach  it,  but  she  could  not.  She 
hearkened  to  the  times  and  the  times 
made  her  their  own.  She  was  always 
sick  .  .  .  sick  unto  death." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  said  nothing 
more. 

They  were  both  of  them  very  pale 
and  both  longed  to  be  alone.  They 
had  nothing  more  to  say  to  each 
other. 

And  Finn  was  not  angry  on  his  mother's 
account.  He  thought  only  of  the  one 
thing,  that  he  could  not  do  what  Cordt 
wanted  and  could  not  appease  his  sor- 
row .  .  .  could  not  even  tell  him  that  he 
loved  him.  And  then  he  longed  to  sit 
still  ...  in  the  old  room  .  .  .  with  his 
377 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


mother,  who  was  so  pretty  and  whom  he 
had  never  offended: 

"Are  you  angry  with  me,  father?" 

Cordt  looked  at  him  long  and  intently. 
Then  he  said: 

"Yes." 

But,  when  Finn  was  gone,  he  sat  with 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands  and  wept. 


278 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CORDT  entered,  dressed  to  go  out,  and 
hurriedly  crossed  the  room. 

Fru  Adelheid  sat  writing.  She  looked 
up,  as  he  came  in,  and  went  on  writing. 

"Where  is  Finn?" 

"Upstairs,  I  suppose  ...  in  his  room," 
she  answered,  without  looking  at  him. 

He  stood  at  the  window  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and 
got  up  again  and  stood  by  the  table  at 
which  she  was  sitting: 

"Have  you  been  with  him  to-day?" 

"No." 

She  closed  her  blotting-book  and  turned 
her  chair  so  that  her  face  was  in  shadow. 
Then  she  said: 

"Finn  is  too  much  alone." 
379 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


"Yes." 

He  nodded  and  said  yes  again;  then 
stood  with  his  head  bowed  deep  in 
thought. 

"It  is  so  quiet  here/'  said  Fru  Adel- 
heid.  "You  are  not  happy  and  Finn 
notices  it.  And  Hans  is  away  .  .  ." 

"Yes  ...  yes  ..  ." 

She  crossed  her  arms  over  her  breast 
and  sat  silent  and  looked  at  the  tip  of  her 
foot. 

"Adelheid  ..." 

Cordt  drew  himself  erect: 

"We  will  fill  the  house  with  gayety,"  he 
said.  "We  will  go  and  pay  visits  to- 
morrow morning  .  .  .  you  and  Finn  and 
I  ...  to  old  friends  and  new.  We  will 
have  young  and  cheerful  people  here  and 
pretty  women  and  clever  men  .  .  .  lights 
and  music." 

She  looked  up  at  him.     He  smiled  and 

put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

280 


CORDT'S   SON 


"Yes,"  she  said. 

Cordt  talked  about  it  a  little  and  then 
went  out  hurriedly. 

Fru  Adelheid  remained  sitting  long. 
The  room  grew  dark.  The  lamps  be- 
fore the  gateway  were  lit  and  their  flick- 
ering gleams  danced  on  the  ceiling.  The 
fire  in  the  hearth  smouldered  under  the 
ashes.  Where  she  sat,  no  light  fell;  her 
white  dress  shone  faintly  through  the 
gloom. 

She  thought  of  Cordt's  smile  ...  he 
had  said  that  to  her  much  as  though  he 
were  asking  one  of  the  people  in  the  office 
to  take  pains  in  a  difficult  matter. 

She  thought  of  Finn,  who  looked  at  her 
with  such  strange  eyes,  as  though  the  re- 
lations between  him  and  his  mother  had 
changed  and  he  could  not  understand  it. 

She  thought  of  herself.  She  felt  like 
a  tree  in  autumn,  when  the  leaves  fall 
...  a  tree  that  had  always  thought  it- 
381 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


self  green  and  beautiful  until  now,  when 
it  saw  its  glory  flutter  before  the  wind. 

And,  day  after  day  and  every  hour  of 
the  day,  she  rebuilt  it  all  as  it  might  have 
been. 

She  built  up  the  temple  of  the  old  room 
again  and  locked  the  door  with  seven 
seals.  She  put  time  back  and  sat  with 
her  little  boy  in  her  lap  and  resented 
old  Marie's  undressing  him  and  singing 
him  to  sleep.  She  put  time  forward  and 
celebrated  the  day  when  Finn  should 
lead  his  wife  into  the  secret  chamber  of 
the  house  and  tell  her  all  about  it,  in  all 
its  beauty  and  solemnity,  and  write  his 
name  and  hers  on  the  yellow  document. 

Fru  Adelheid  smiled  sadly. 

She  thought  she  was  like  the  man  who 
had  put  the  celestial  globe  up  there  in 
the  old  room  .  .  .  the  man  whose  intellect 
was  obscured  and  who  sat  and  played 

with  the  stars  until  he  died. 

282 


CORDT'S   SON 


But  her  thoughts  always  went  the  same 
way,  while  the  darkness  fell  ever  closer 
about  Cordt's  house. 

She  wondered,  would  it  be  any  use 
now,  if  the  house  were  filled  with  lights 
and  gayety  ?  Or  would  the  darkness  lurk 
in  every  gloomy  corner  and  spring  forth 
when  the  feast  was  over  and  for  ever  hide 
the  three  who  moved  about  the  house, 
each  his  own  way,  anxiously  and  alone  ? 

She  did  not  know.  But  she  always 
thought  of  it.  And  there  was  nothing 
tempestuous  in  her  hope  and  in  her  fear 
and  in  her  regret. 

Fru  Adelheid  was  calm  now,  always. 


283 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THEN  the  stately  house  on  the  square 
was  lit  up  with  gayety. 

The  horses  trampled  in  the  gateway 
and  the  servants  ran  up  and  down  the 
carpeted  stairs.  The  great  drawing-rooms 
streamed  with  lights  and  flowers  and 
music  and  the  floor  was  filled  with 
dancers. 

It  was  a  wealth  and  splendor  even 
greater  than  in  the  old  days,  for  now  the 
master  of  the  house  was  a  more  lavish 
host  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He 
could  never  have  things  fine  enough, 
luxurious  enough.  He  saw  to  everything, 
was  everywhere  and  moved  among  his 
guests  so  that  they  could  see  that  he  de- 
lighted in  them. 

284 


CORDT'S   SON 


The  entertainments  at  Cordt's  house 
became  legendary.  And  all  that  were 
rich  and  beautiful  and  noble  and  intelli- 
gent came  when  he  invited  them  and 
came  gratefully  and  were  glad  to  stay. 

The  men  gathered  close  about  the  lady 
of  the  house,  who  was  charming  in  her 
white  gown,  with  her  white  hair. 

Those  who  had  paid  her  their  homage 
in  the  old  days  raised  their  grey  heads 
when  she  passed  them  and  followed  her 
tall  figure  with  a  gleam  of  their  youthful 
fire  in  their  eyes.  And  those  who  were 
now  young  wondered  when  they  heard 
the  old  ones  tell  that  she  was  once  a 
thousand  times  prettier. 

Or  not  prettier,  perhaps.  But  such 
that  every  man  on  whom  her  eyes  fell 
was,  from  that  moment,  hers  and  that 
every  glance  she  vouchsafed  was  re- 
membered for  all  time. 

Now  she  was  more  remote  in  her  smiles. 
285 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Her  glance  was  deeper,  but  it  was  as 
though  it  did  not  see.  Her  red  mouth  no 
longer  promised  happiness  as  it  used  to. 
Any  one  would  think  it  a  happiness  to  win 
her.  But  no  one  would  believe  it  possible. 

And,  while  they  saw  her  thus  in  the 
light  of  their  youth,  they  wondered  what 
could  have  happened  in  the  years  that 
had  passed  and  why  the  house  had  so 
long  been  closed  and  why  it  had  now  so 
suddenly  opened  its  doors  wide  to  the 
world  which  holds  revel  daily. 

But  their  thoughts  never  grew  to  the 
shadow  of  a  slander. 

They  asked  her  to  sing.  And,  as  she 
sat  at  the  piano  and  looked  through  the 
room  with  her  great,  strange  eyes,  the 
old  friends  of  the  house  remembered  the 
glowing  songs  of  her  youth,  which  had 
set  their  blood  aflame  as  she  exulted  and 
wept  in  them  with  desire  and  love. 

But  now,  when  she  sang,  the  young 
286 


CORDT'S   SON 


ones  listened,  enraptured  with  her  voice, 
which  was  so  bright  and  so  clear  and  so 
wonderfully  still: 

The  wildest  water  on  earth  to-day 

(God  grant  me  His  grace  consoling!) 
Flows  deep  and  dreary  through  gorges  grey, 
But  whither  and  whence  they  alone  can  say 
Who  first  set  its  wild  waves  rolling. 

For  no  ship  ever  its  tideway  knew, 
Its  marge  bore  never  a  blossom. 
And  never  a  bird  from  the  beaches  flew, 
And  never  a  mirrored  star  it  drew 
From  Heav'n  to  its  own  black  bosom. 

It  wells  from  eyes  that  are  glazed  with  pain 

(God  shield  me  in  all  disaster!) 
When  a  man  has  rent  like  a  rag  in  twain 
His  own  life's  bliss,  by  his  own  hand  slain, 
Being  never  his  fortune's  master. 

There  was  a  brief  silence  when  she 
ceased.  Then  they  crowded  round  her 
in  admiration  and  with  endless  requests 

for  more. 

287 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


Fru  Adelheid  rose.  She  talked  and 
smiled  and  thanked  them.  But  herglance 
wandered  far  beyond  all  these  people, 
who  meant  nothing  to  her,  to  Cordt,  who 
stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  and  was 
talking  to  some  one  and  did  not  see  her 
and  had  not  heard  her. 

But  Finn  had  heard  her.  And  Finn 
had  seen  her  great,  humble,  plaintive  look. 

He  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  her  and 
strange  thoughts  hurried  through  his 
head.  He  now  understood  what  had 
happened  in  this  house.  He  knew  why 
Fru  Adeheid  had  come  to  him  so  seldom, 
lately,  in  the  old  room.  Why  she  had 
sat  so  silent,  steeped  in  distant  thoughts 
.  .  .  why  her  glance  had  been  so  uncertain 
and  so  timid,  her  words  so  wavering,  her 
hand  so  slack  in  his. 

And  he  felt  that  the  last  bond  was 
broken  that  bound  him  to  mankind. 

He  had  lost  his  mother,  now  that  he 

288 


CORDT'S    SON 


was  pushing  hardest  towards  her.  When 
she  came  to  him  now,  it  was  Cordt  she 
looked  for.  Were  he  to  go  to  her  now 
and  lie  down  before  her  with  his  cheek  on 
her  hand,  as  he  had  so  often  done,  she 
would  lift  him  up  and  bid  him  go  out  into 
the  world  and  live. 

He  had  a  feeling  as  though  he  had  been 
betrayed,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  wept 
with  her  in  his  heart.  He  looked  at  his 
father  and  thought  how  much  more  of  a 
man  he  was  than  she  suspected  in  her 
poor,  tardy  repentance.  He  looked  at 
his  mother  and  felt  a  curious  loving  con- 
tempt for  her  .  .  .  such  as  men  feel  for  a 
woman  who  comes  to  them  and  begs  for 
something  a  thousand  times  less  import- 
ant than  what  she  once  possessed  and 
despised. 

Then  he  had  to  go  into  the  crowd  of 
people,  who  offered  him  their  smiles  and 

asked  for  his. 

289 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


And  so  strong  was  the  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness in  him  that  he  mingled  readily  with 
the  guests  of  the  house  and  was  more 
cheerful  than  usual  and  more  talkative. 

He  was  as  pleased  to  move  about  these 
bright  rooms  as  elsewhere,  because  he 
was  no  longer  at  home  anywhere.  He 
might  just  as  well  exchange  a  few  words 
with  these  smartly-dressed  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  since  he  had  to  talk  and  since 
he  could  no  longer  tell  any  one  what  was 
passing  within  him  and  since  no  one  could 
tell  him  what  he  wanted  to  hear. 

The  women  crowded  round  him  as 
the  men  did  round  Fru  Adelheid.  They 
wound  a  circle  of  white  arms  and  bright 
eyes  round  the  young  heir  of  the  house, 
who  was  so  pale  and  so  handsome  and 
such  that  women  longed  for  that  which 
he  did  not  show.  They  met  him  with 
charming,  flattering  words  and  smiled 

upon    him    and    he    did    not    hear    the 

290 


CORDT'S   SON 


words  and  broke  through  the  circle  with- 
out a  trouble  and  without  a  sigh. 

The  men  offered  him  their  friendship 
and  he  shook  their  hands  and  talked  to 
them  and  went  away  and  forgot  their 
faces.  Cordt  found  him  in  every  corner, 
where  he  had  hidden  for  a  moment  with- 
out intending  to  or  thinking  about  it,  and 
carried  him  smilingly  and  teasingly  and 
jestingly  into  the  throng.  And  he  smiled 
to  his  father  and  went  with  him  and  re- 
mained always  alone. 

He  saw  himself  and  only  himself.  He 
seized  upon  every  thought  that  arose  in 
him  and  discussed  it  as  if  it  had  been 
thought  by  another.  He  contemplated 
every  mood  that  welled  up  in  his  soul  as 
if  he  had  read  it  in  a  book. 

He  climbed  high  up  the  peaks  upon 

which    men    cannot    live  ...  the    peaks 

whence   they  topple   down  one   day  or 

where  they  perish  in  the  bright  frost.     For 

291 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


there  is  no  sound  up  there  and  no  air, 
no  day  and  no  paths.  Only  light  and 
always  light. 

But,  when  it  happened  that  Cordt's 
glance  fell  upon  him,  without  his  know- 
ing it,  the  loneliness  was  suddenly  extin- 
guished in  his  soul. 

Then  he  knew  who  he  was  and  where 
he  was  and  the  pain  of  life  gnawed  into 
his  soul.  For  he  constantly  read  the  eter- 
nal, hopeless,  fond  question  in  his  father's 
eyes.  He  realized  what  he  had  forgotten, 
that  the  house  was  making  holiday  for 
his  sake  and  his  sake  alone.  Every  strain 
that  sounded,  every  rose  that  blushed, 
every  pretty  woman  who  moved  across 
the  floor:  they  were  all  his  father's  ser- 
vants, who  came  to  him  with  message 
after  message  that  life's  banquet  was 
served  if  he  would  but  take  his  seat  at 
the  board  and  drain  its  golden  cup. 

Then  he  thought  sadly  of  his  tranquil, 

292 


CORDT'S    SON 


beautiful  mother,  who  had  gone  from 
him,  out  into  life,  which  did  not  touch 
him.  How  good  it  would  have  been  if 
they  could  sit  together  now  and  talk  and 
be  silent,  while  the  fountain  rippled  in 
the  square  and  the  queer  things  in  the  old 
room  whispered  their  strange  and  mighty 
legend! 

It  would  have  been  good  for  him.  And 
good  for  her,  he  thought.  And  best  of  all, 
perhaps,  for  Cordt,  who  did  not  see  her. 

His  thoughts  gathered  in  love  for 
Cordt,  who  was  struggling  to  the  death 
in  his  hopeless  fight.  He  felt  as  though 
his  father  were  a  hero  in  the  wars  and 
wished  that  he  were  his  meanest  page  to 
buckle  on  his  armor  for  him  and  bathe 
his  wounds  and  sit  beside  him  with  his 
lute,  when  he  would  sleep. 

But  the  rout  ran  its  course  and  it  was 
late  before  the  gate  closed  behind  the 

last  carriage. 

393 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


It  fell  heavily  and  harshly  as  though  it 
were  striking  angrily  at  the  guests'  heels. 
It  grated  its  hinges  long  and  shook  its 
bolts  as  though  it  thought  of  never  opening 
again,  but  of  shutting  out  the  world  for 
ever  from  that  old  house,  in  which  no 
light  could  drive  away  the  increasing 
gloom,  no  joyous  trumpets  drown  the 
hoarse  voices  that  threatened  in  the 
corners. 

Then  they  sat  together  for  a  while 
longer,  they  three  who  dwelt  in  the  house, 
and  talked  with  empty  words  and  empty 
eyes. 

Fru  Adelheid  it  was  who  first  ceased, 
because  her  thoughts  were  the  strongest. 
And  Finn  it  was  who  said  the  most  .  .  . 
as  though  to  expiate  the  fault  that  op- 
pressed him. 

But  it  was  Cordt  who  was  bitterest  in 
his  care,  while  indifferent  words  passed 
between  those  who  stood  as  close  together 
294 


CORDT'S   SON 


as  it  was  possible  for  mortals  to- stand  and 
who  feared  the  silence  and  who  had  no- 
thing more  to  say  to  each  other. 

Then  Cordt  said  good-night  and  Finn. 
But  Fru  Adelheid  told  the  servants  to 
leave  her  for  a  little  and  the  candles  burnt 
where  the  rout  had  been. 

Restlessly  she  wandered  about  the  room 
and  again  thought  of  the  days  that  were 
gone  and  could  never  return.  And  she 
readily  surrendered  herself  to  her  fancies, 
for  there  was  in  her  now  but  one  hope 
and  one  faith  and  one  repentance. 

She  fancied  that  one  of  the  long  even- 
ings was  over  in  which  gay  acquaintances 
filled  her  rich  house  and  Cordt  and  she 
exchanged  glances  which  only  they  under- 
stood. 

She  had  been  to  the  nursery  and  leant 

over  her  little  boy,  who  was  sleeping  with 

red   cheeks.     Now  she  would  take  the 

reddest  flower  there  was  and  then  go  up 

395 


THE   OLD   ROOM 


the  secret  stair  ...  up  to  where  the  old 
room  stood,  in  its  wonderful  glory. 

There  he  sat  and  waited  for  her. 

She  saw  him  as  she  entered  ...  he 
raised  his  face  to  her  and  nodded  and 
then  lapsed  again  into  his  heavy  thoughts. 
And  she  stood  silent  at  the  window,  where 
the  red  flowers  blushed  before  her  feet 
and  the  square  lay  below  her  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  and  the  fountain  sang 
its  refrain,  which  never  begins  and  never 
stops. 

Then  she  rose  and  crossed  the  room. 
She  heard  his  voice  when  he  talked  to  her, 
as  he  so  often  talked  .  .  .  ever  the  same 
judgment  upon  the  dance  that  passed  over 
the  world,  the  same  mighty  song  in  praise 
of  great  marriage,  the  same  passionate, 
loving  prayer  that  she  would  only  see  it 
while  there  was  yet  time  and  let  those 
dance  who  had  nothing  better  to  do  and 

take  the  proud  place  which  he  offered 

296 


CORDT'S   SON 


her  by  his  side  ...  in  the  old  chair,  in 
which  people  became  so  small  and  so 
strong,  because  they  sat  with  their  feet 
on  an  altar  that  was  raised  in  faith  and 
built  up  of  faith  and  fenced  in  with  faith 
throughout  the  changing  times. 

Then,  when  he  had  said  that  and  sat 
by  the  chimney,  where  the  fire  glowed 
and  the  candles  shed  their  rays  sparingly 
in  the  corners  of  the  old  room  .  .  .  she 
would  stand  for  a  little  at  the  window, 
while  all  was  silent  in  the  room,  and  look 
at  him,  who  was  the  man  in  her  life  and 
had  never  ceased  to  be  so.  And  then 
she  would  go  up  to  him  .  .  .  slowly  and 
quietly,  because  she  honored  the  ground 
she  trod  on  ...  kneel  down  where  he 
sat  and  raise  to  him  the  eyes  whose 
beauty  he  had  loved,  whose  glance  he 
had  sought  in  such  great  hope  and  such 
great  fear. 

Then  she  would  tell  him  exactly  how  it 
297 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


was  .  .  .  how    strong    it    was    and    how 
silent: 

"Cordt  .  .  .  you  strong,  you  irresistible 
man  ...  I  love  you  as  you  would  be 
loved.  I  thank  you,  because  you  talked 
to  me  and  never  grew  weary.  Because 
you  always  besought  me.  Because  you 
waited  for  me  and  trusted  that  the  day 
would  come  when  the  silence  of  the  old 
room  should  turn  to  gladsome  song  in  my 
soul  and  all  the  other  sounds  in  the  world 
like  a  distant  buzz  in  the  woods.  Now 
I  am  here  .  .  .  Cordt  .  .  .  you  strong,  you 
irresistible  man.  Now  I  am  yours,  as  I 
was  before,  and  I  am  yours  in  the  old 
room.  There  is  nothing  threatening  or 
gloomy  now  in  the  strange  things  up  here 
from  the  vanished  days.  I  can  sing  to 
the  old  spinet  so  that  no  strings  snap  and 
no  memories  are  mortally  startled,  for  I 
sing  only  of  you  and  of  my  boy  and  of 

my  happiness.     I  can  cherish  the  thread 

298 


CORDT'S   SON 


upon  great-grandmother's  spinning-wheel 
because  I  have  woven  the  cloth  of  happi- 
ness in  my  own  room.  I  can  lovingly  hide 
the  wax  doll  in  the  folds  of  the  curtain, 
because  I  have  lived  to  see  the  day  when 
I  went  gladly  and  readily  to  the  secret 
chamber  of  the  house  and  sat  there  long 
and  was  contented.  .  .  .  But  the  jar  with 
the  naked  man  writhing  through  thorns: 
I  set  that  up  here  when  I  was  not  yet  what 
I  am.  It  shall  stand  here  in  memory  of 
the  evil  time  that  pulled  at  Fru  Adelheid's 
soul  and  lured  her  desires  with  sounds  from 
the  square  outside.  .  .  .  And  our  little  boy, 
who  sleeps  with  red  cheeks,  shall  grow  to 
man's  estate  and  come  up  here  one  day, 
when  you  and  I  are  dead,  and  sit  with 
his  wife  in  the  chairs  in  which  we  sat. 
Then  he  shall  know  that  his  mother  was 
tempted,  it  is  true,  but  not  destroyed." 
Fru  Adelheid  sat  in  her  corner  and 

dreamt  in  the  silent,  empty  rooms. 
299 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


Her  white  gown  spread  over  the  floor 
about  her  feet.  Her  eyes  shone. 

But  high  up,  on  the  balcony  of  the  old 
room,  stood  Finn  and  stared  into  the 
night  that  stretched  round  about  him  like 
a  waveless  sea. 

It  was  silent.  He  did  not  think,  did 
not  dream.  His  soul  mingled  with  the 
darkness,  which  was  not  evil  and  not 
good  .  .  .  only  silent. 

He  was  like  a  dead  man  who  had  been 
put  on  guard  on  the  brink  of  the  tower 
and  who  still  stood  there,  staring  with 
glazed  eyes.  The  fountain  rippled  .  .  . 
it  was  as  though  the  water  rose  over  the 
edge  of  the  basin  and  would  rise  and  rise 
until  it  reached  the  dead  man  up  there 
and  washed  him  away. 

Then  a  man  came  across  the  square. 

He  walked  and  sang,  until  he  set  eyes 
upon  the  man  who  stood  up  there,  high 


CORDT'S   SON 


and  dark  and  motionless.  Then  he  stopped 
and  looked  at  him  and  shouted  something. 
And  the  man  on  the  balcony  answered 
with  a  shout.  And  the  man  below  was 
seized  with  fear  and  ran  .  ^way  and  van- 
ished in  the  darkness. 


301 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CORDT  looked  into  the  room  where 
Fru  Adelheid  sat: 

"Where  is  Finn?" 

"I  think  he's  in  the  old  room." 

Cordt  closed  the  door  and  walked 
quickly  down  the  passage.  She  was 
sitting  by  the  window  and  saw  him  in  the 
square  below,  where  he  stood  and  looked 
up  at  the  house.  Then  he  walked  away, 
in  such  a  manner  that  she  could  see  that 
he  had  no  object  for  his  walk. 

The  servant  came  and  lit  the  candles. 
Fru  Adelheid  sat  down  by  the  fireplace 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  listened  for 
a  sound  in  the  quiet  house. 

Soon  after,  Cordt  came  home. 

She   heard   his   voice   in   the   passage. 

302 


CORDT'S   SON 


Then  he  went  into  his  own  room  .  .  .  now 
he  was  outside  again.  She  understood 
that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Finn;  but  the 
next  moment  he  came  in  to  where  she 
was  sitting  and  sat  down  at  a  distance 
from  her: 

"Have  you  been  up  to  him  to-day, 
Adelheid?" 

"No." 

Cordt  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  rose 
to  go  and  sat  down  again.  Fru  Adelheid 
struggled  with  herself  not  to  go  over  to 
him  and  take  his  hand  and  talk  to  him. 
Then  he  said: 

"  He  has  been  so  odd,  lately.  Brighter 
than  usual,  but  more  absent,  neverthe- 
less. He  is  not  shamming,  but  still  he  is 
not  himself." 

Cordt  went  on  talking  about  it,  with- 
out looking  at  her  and  not  so  much  in 
order  to  tell  it  to  her  as  because  he  could 
not  keep  silent.  She  saw  this  exactly  and 
303 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


turned  away  her  face   and  cried  quietly. 
Then  he  asked: 

"Haven't  you  noticed  it?" 
"I  think  he  is  much  as  usual." 
Cordt  rose  and  crossed  the  room.     He 
stood  for  a  time  by  the  chimney,  where  she 
sat,  and  stared  into  the  fire.     She  looked 
up  at  him  with  bright,  moist  eyes.     Then 
he   went    over    and    sat   where    he   had 
been  sitting  before  and  it  was  silent  in 
the  room. 

"I  wonder,  oughtn't  you  to  go  up  to 
him,  Adelheid?" 

He  could  not  hear  her  reply  and  looked 
across  at  her.  She  had  stood  up  and  was 
coming  towards  him.  He  saw  that  she 
was  very  pale  and  that  she  was  crying, 
but  did  not  think  about  it  and  forgot  it 
again  at  once. 

Then  she  sat  by  him  ...  so  close  that 
her  white  gown  lay  over  his  feet.  She 
crossed  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  parted 

3°4 


CORDT'S   SON 


them  again  and  did  not  look  at  him  while 
she  spoke: 

"Cordt  .  .  /'she  said. 

And,  when  she  had  said  that,  she  began 
to  tremble  and  pressed  her  hands  together. 

"Yes?" 

"  Ton  ought  to  go  up  to  him,  Cordt." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
bent  closer  to  her  and  lowered  his  voice, 
as  though  there  were  some  one  in  the 
room  who  could  hear  what  he  was  saying 
and  must  not: 

"I  dare  not.  I  have  frightened  him. 
He  starts  when  he  sees  me  ...  he  stands 
outside  my  door  and  collects  his  courage 
when  he  comes  to  me  to  say  good-morn- 
ing. I  will  go  quite  away  from  him  for  a 
little  while  ...  go  for  a  journey,  I  think, 
until  he  becomes  more  tranquil." 

She  looked  at  him  and  pictured  him 
roaming  round  the  world  so  that  Finn 
might  recover  his  tranquillity.  She  saw 
3°s 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


him  strolling  in  distant  towns,  where  life 
flowed  on  around  him,  alone,  knowing 
no  peace,  ever  thinking  of  his  son  .  .  . 
longing  for  the  day  when  he  could  come 
home,  dreading  how  he  would  find  him 
then. 

Fru  Adelheid  slipped  from  her  chair 
and  lay  on  the  floor  before  him,  with  her 
cheek  against  his  hand  and  her  eyes 
streaming  with  tears. 

Cordt  did  not  see.  He  stared  into  the 
room  across  her  head,  with  the  strained, 
racked  look  which  he  now  always  wore 
when  he  was  alone: 

"He  does  not  like  our  parties,  Adel- 
heid/' he  said,  meditatively.  "We  only 
did  him  harm." 

"Yes." 

"But,  if  you  would  go  up  to  him, 
Adelheid  .  .  .  very  quietly  .  .  .  and  sit  with 
him  a  little,  so  that  he  could  not  give  way 

to  his  thoughts.     Or  help  him,  so  that  his 

306 


CORDT'S   SON 


thoughts  could  find  utterance.  You  two 
always  got  on  well  together,  you  know, 
and  he  was  glad  to  see  you  whenever  you 
came." 

"He  is  no  longer  glad  to  see  me, 
Cordt." 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise  and  en- 
countered her  moist  glance. 

"  If  I  went  up  now,  Cordt  ...  I  could 
not  sit  with  Finn  as  I  used  to.  For  I  am 
no  longer  the  same." 

"Ah,  well!"  was  all  he  said. 

He  spoke  calmly  and  indifferently,  as 
though  he  had  had  no  particular  faith 
in  'his  remedy  and  must  look  round  for 
something  else. 

"Cordt!  ..." 

It  was  a  scream. 

He  started.  And,  as  if  he  had  now 
first  seen  that  she  was  kneeling  before 
him,  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  to 

his  feet. 

307 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


He  crossed  the  room  and  then  came 
back  and  stood  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
sense  of  dislike  that  increased  every 
minute.  She  crept  to  the  chair  from 
which  he  had  risen  and  laid  her  head  on 
it.  She  closed  her  eyes  before  his  glance 
and  wept  silently  and  without  stopping. 

"Ton  ...    ?"   he  said   slowly. 

She  received  the  blow  which  the  word 
gave  her  without  breathing  a  sound. 
Once  she  opened  her  eyes  and  immedi- 
ately closed  them  again.  Pale  and  still 
she  lay  before  his  feet. 

Then  his  eyes  blazed  with  anger  and 
scorn: 

"What  a  number  of  years  have  passed 
since  we  two  first  met,  Fru  Adelheid  .  .  . 
what  a  number  of  miserable  years!" 

"Yes,"  she  said  and  raised  her  head 
for  a  moment  and  laid  it  on  the  chair 
again. 

"You  went  away  ...  in  search  of  your 


CORDT'S   SON 


red  happiness.  You  were  not  content 
with  your  husband,  whom  you  loved  and 
who  loved  you  .  .  .  you  must  have  all 
men  on  their  knees  before  your  beauty 
.  .  .  you  must  needs  see  the  desire  in  their 
eyes  and  their  unchaste  hands  cramped 
because  they  dared  not  lay  them  upon 
Cordt's  wife." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Well,  did  you  find  the  lover  who 
bound  your  will  to  his  foot?  And  did 
he  spurn  you  when  he  had  seen  to  the 
depths  of  your  charming  eyes  ?  Or  did 
you  leave  him  of  your  own  accord  .  .  . 
and  go  farther  out  into  the  world  ...  in 
search  of  that  which  was  greater  still 
and  redder?" 

"  I  had  no  lover,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  tossed  back  the  hair  from  his  fore- 
head and  clenched  his  fists: 

"No,"  he  said.  "You  did  not.  That 
is  your  disgrace  and  your  judgment." 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


"Cordt  .  .  .  Cordt  .  .  .  suppose  I  had 
had  ..." 

"Yes  ...  if  you  had  had  a  lover  and 
were  here  to-day,  then  I  should  take  your 
hand  and  lead  you  to  our  son  and  say  to 
him,  *  Here  is  your  mother,  who  has  been 
unhappy.  She  loved  your  father  and  her 
love  died  when  the  man  came  who  was 
more  to  her  than  he.  She  has  not  known 
a  really  happy  day  in  all  these  years,  be- 
cause her  fate  was  too  strong  for  her. 
Now  she  has  come  to  ask  for  your  affec- 
tion and  needs  it.'" 

He  crossed  the  room  and  then  came 
and  stood  by  her  again: 

"Get  up,  Adelheid." 

She  rose  from  the  floor  and  sat  down  in 
her  chair  again,  with  her  white  hands 
crossed  in  her  lap,  silently  and  quietly. 
He  looked  at  her  and  it  was  as  though  her 
humble  obedience  added  to  his  anger: 

"Where  did  you  go  on  the  day  when  you 


CORDT'S   SON 


broke  the  bonds  of  your  marriage,  be- 
cause the  air  in  the  old  room  was  too  pure 
for  you  and  too  strong?  Where  have 
you  been  since  ? " 

"I  went  to  God." 

Cordt  laughed: 

"Show  me  your  God." 

He  bent  over  and  looked  her  in  the 
face: 

"I  don't  believe  in  your  God,"  he 
said. 

She  did  not  take  her  eyes  from  his 
and  stretched  out  her  trembling  hands  to 
him  and  her  red  mouth  quivered  with 
weeping: 

"Then  I  don't  believe  in  Him  either, 
Cordt." 

He  turned  away  from  her.  Quietly 
she  bowed  her  head,  her  tears  fell  upon 
her  hands,  she  listened  and  moaned  under 
the  blows  which  she  had  received  and 
longed  for  more. 

3" 


THE    OLD    ROOM 


But  Cordt  sat  at  the  window  and  looked 
out  where  the  rain  came  pouring  down 
and  the  flame  of  the  lamps  flickered  in  the 
wind.  His  anger  was  over.  He  could 
not  remember  what  they  had  been  talk- 
ing of.  His  thoughts  were  where  they 
always  were  and  all  the  rest  was  nothing. 

Then  he  suddenly  stood  by  her  again 
and  struck  his  hand  on  his  temples  and 
looked  at  her  with  fear  in  his  eyes: 

"Adelheid  ...  do  you  think  Finn  won't 
come  to  us  at  all  to-night?" 

She  understood  that  it  was  too  late  .  .  . 
irremediably,  hopelessly  too  late.  She 
would  never  be  able  to  tell  him  what  was 
burning  in  her  soul.  He  would  never 
know  that  she  did  not  come,  because  she 
was  weary  and  because  she  was  afraid, 
but. that  she  had  honestly  wiped  out  the 
bad  years  of  her  life  and  stood  again  as 
he  would  have  had  her  the  time  ...  the 

time  he  wanted  to  have  her  thus. 
312 


CORDT'S   SON 


"He  will  come  and  say  good-night," 
she  said  calmly. 

Fru  Adelheid  raised  her  folded  hands 
to  her  mouth. 

Things  could  not  remain  thus  for  ever. 
But  she  could  wait.  She  could  go  bare- 
foot over  the  stones,  if  only  once  she 
reached  a  place  in  his  house  where  she 
could  stay.  There  must  be  a  road  some- 
where that  led  to  him. 

And  the  evening  sped  on. 

She  sat  beside  him  again  and  held  his 
hand  in  hers,  happy  that  he  allowed  her 
to  keep  it.  She  wanted  to  push  his  hair 
off  his  forehead,  where  the  wrinkles  lay  so 
sharply  marked,  but  did  not.  She  wanted 
to  put  her  hands  on  his  tired  eyes,  but 
dared  not. 

They  talked  of  Finn  and  she  talked 
softly  and  soothingly  to  him  as  to  a  child, 
happy  to  be  going  the  way  he  wanted. 
313 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


She  found  such  gentle  words  and  such 
impressive  ones  .  .  .  she  found  her  smile 
again  and  looked  at  him  and  met  his 
smile,  which  came  stealing  to  his  face  like 
a  sun-gleam  and  vanished  again  at  once. 

He  heard  but  little  of  what  she  said. 
But  the  sound  of  her  voice  did  him  good. 
He  heard  it  and  the  rain,  which  beat 
against  the  panes,  and  it  grew  warm  and 
peaceful  around  him. 

His  fears,  which  had  aroused  and  spied 
and  driven  his  every  thought  and  turned 
and  weighed  his  every  doubt,  slumbered 
in  this  quiet  hour.  He  sat  there  like  an 
old  man  who  has  suffered  so  much  that 
his  faculties  have  been  blunted  to  pain 
and  who  takes  his  solace  as  it  comes  and 
is  thankful. 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  used  to  look  at 
his  mother  when  he  was  young  and  un- 
happy. He  thought  of  her  as  of  a  young 
girl  who  knew  the  old  man  so  little  and 
314 


CORDT'S   SON 


owed  him  nothing,  but  went  to  his  chair 
and  laid  her  roses  in  his  hand,  so  that 
things  might  be  a  little  pleasanter  for 
him. 

And  once  he  moved  uneasily  in  his 
chair  and  looked  at  her  quite  differently 
and  said: 

"Adelheid  .  .  .  why  have  I  no  child 
but  him?" 

He  said  that  very  quietly  and,  a  little 
after,  he  said  it  again.  He  said  it  to 
himself  and  not  to  her.  She  saw  this  and 
wept,  because  she  knew  he  did  not  per- 
ceive it. 

And  the  evening  sped  on. 

They  sat  quietly  and  she  was  silent  and 
talked  again  of  their  son  up  there  in  the 
old  room.  Then  she  said: 

"Cordt,  let  us  go  up  to  him!" 

"Both  of  us?" 

She  listened  anxiously  whether  he  would 
315 


THE    OLD   ROOM 


say  any  more  .  .  .  whether  he  would  re- 
flect who  she  was  and  thrust  her  from 
him  in  anger,  as  he  had  done  before. 

But  he  sat  silent  and  looked  at  the  red 
glow  in  the  fireplace. 

Then  she  rose  and  put  out  her  hands 
to  him: 

"Come  .  .  .  Cordt  ...  let  us  go.  We 
will  sit  with  him  a  little  and  talk  to  him, 
quietly  and  cheerfully,  till  the  shadows 
disappear.  Then  we  will  come  down 
here  again  and  they  will  return,  when  he 
is  alone.  But  we  will  go  up  every  day 
and  fight  with  them  for  him  and  win 
him." 

He  rose  heavily  and  took  her  hand. 

Fru  Adelheid  led  him  through  the  room 
like  a  child.  They  went  through  the  long 
passage  and  up  the  secret  stairs.  .  .  .  She 
was  always  a  little  in  front  of  him.  Her 
eyes  shone  with  happiness.  The  bells 
rang  out  in  her  soul  and  she  held  Cordt's 
316 


CORDT'S   SON 


hand  so  fast  as  though  she  would  never 
let  it  go. 

They  came  to  the  door  of  the  .old  room 
and  knocked  and  listened.  She  looked  at 
him  and  bent  over  his  hand  and  kissed 
it  with  streaming  tears. 

Then  she  opened  the  door  briskly  and 
went  in  with  head  uplifted  and  .drew  him 
after  her. 

Over  by  the  window  sat  Cordt's  son, 
in  one  of  the  big  chairs.  He  had  shot 
himself. 

THE    END. 


- 


A    0000305™ 


